


Blood and Crown

by LittleMuse, Majestrix



Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012), X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: AU, Angst, Civil War (Marvel), Intrigue, M/M, Multi, Politics, registration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-11-19 04:12:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMuse/pseuds/LittleMuse, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Majestrix/pseuds/Majestrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A violent chain of events sets several noble houses vying for the throne.</p><p>If-Marvel-were-run-like-Game-of-Thrones AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

It's early, 8 a.m, maybe earlier. Logan hates being up, but he couldn't sleep in if he tried, never could, even before any kind of schedule. Maybe if it weren't so fucking hot.

When he stops to swipe at his brow, Larry – second-degree murder, everyone calls him Sticks and Logan has no idea why and couldn't care less – turns and smirks at him like they're playing chess and he's just lain a gambit. "Tired?" he asks, because he hates Logan. Logan couldn't care less about that either.

Logan ignores him and bends to retrieve a squashed beer can, stuffed into the roadside dirt like modern art. It's going to be a long morning. At least it's not dish detail. In a way, Larry reminds him of Victor. Just a little bit. Victor would probably hate that.

Potato chip bag. Cigarette butt. Old shoe – a rare find. Another cigarette butt. Logan started assigning them points, once. Passes the time.

This road is mostly dead, winding and country, but on up ahead, it connects to bigger places. There's actual traffic along the next, and it's been passing, sometimes crawling, since sun-up. No one pays it any attention.

There's a whistle, and Logan straightens his back, a little curious. A command; step away from the asphalt, further onto the grass. Must be someone important. He sniffs at the air out of habit – tar, dirt, cloying gasoline. Logan can see the four black cars flanking a long, white one, all moving slowly. He cranes his neck to see just because it doesn't look like grass or trash. Some men catcall, others salute. Logan wishes for a cigar and turns away while they take the opportunity to look on.

"Get back to work!"

Logan grunts as the men around him grumble and pick up their poles again. He resists grinning at nothing; it's not like they have anywhere else to go. He stabs viciously into a crumpled soda can and that’s when he feels the tremor shiver up his stick.

He glances up. Some men are pointing, shouting. The officers mounted on horses are trying to keep the beasts from bucking because they smell what Logan smells. Burning.

He's running before he realizes, but he feels the chains on his feet snap into nothing as he gains momentum. Logan will need it if there's anyone left alive.

They’re all in shock, so anyone unchained just follows after him, yelling and screaming and praying as they crest the hill. Through the smoke and fire, there is a car rolled onto its side, tires still spinning, and thick, black smoke billows. Someone is behind the flames, screaming.

Logan rushes in because no one else is.

* * *

Jean is sitting by the pool when Alex finally arrives. The sun is beating down on her head and even behind her shades, she has to squint at her book, it's so bright. Nathan really probably needs more sunscreen. Sara is dragging him giggling through the water and if she'll be beet-red before the day is out, the baby certainly will too.

Jean expects that Scott will come and retrieve her if she's needed, but it's Alex who tugs open the sliding doors and steps out onto the patio. Jean lifts a hand over her eyes and looks up into the sun and his face. For a moment, he just watches Sara splash about with his nephew. His expression is stern, but Jean already knows something is wrong. She's known it all morning; her range is far more impressive than her control.

"Lady Grey," he says eventually, like he's not family. Business, then.

Sara's looking, now. Nathan wriggles in her arms and says her name, confused. Alex gives her a nod and the same address, and then looks to Jean and jerks his chin toward the house, moving back inside.

"What's his problem?" Sara says.

"Nothing," Jean says, standing with some difficulty. Her sundress clings in all the wrong places; nothing is flattering now that she's begun to show. "Watch him."

It's the middle of the afternoon and far too hot, but Scott is making coffee when she steps into the air-conditioned kitchen. He's placed three mugs on the granite counter, even though Jean can't have caffeine and Alex prefers tea. He's unsettled.

"What's wrong?" Jean asks. Nathan's squeals carry even through the glass doors. "You took a long time to get here," she says to Alex.

He stands with his hip propped against the dining table, arms crossed. "There were things to take care of, this morning. It was a while before I could leave the palace."

"What happened?"

Scott comes around the floor and puts a hand on her elbow. "Alex says there's been an explosion. Took out a few civilian cars and part of a prison detail." His hand squeezes. "The royal caravan was caught in the blast."

Jean blinks. Faces bubble up from Alex's memory. "Who was hurt?"

"Nothing is being released at this time," Alex says, like a line that he's been force-fed. He glances at his older brother for a moment and Jean finds herself amused.

"You don't know either. You want me to look?" she asks, because she will if they think it's important enough. "I can't promise anything, especially now," She touches her stomach lightly, "but I can try."

Scott presses a kiss to her temple and shakes his head. "The palace will give us information as they see fit," he says. "At this time, they should have their privacy." The lines around his visor are tight and Jean feels a headache trying to crop up in sympathy. "Is there anything they need?" Scott asks Alex.

"Nothing is being said right now. I’ve been sending all superfluous personnel home. The only reason I was allowed the time to come here is because –" He gestures at the Summers family crest, etched above the doorway. He shakes his head. "What have you been feeling?"

Jean frowns. "Nothing specific. I wasn't looking for anything, really."

"Jean." There’s too much concern in Scott’s tone and she leans in to give him a calming kiss.

"I'm fine. The baby gets me mentally restless at times, is all. It was the same with Nathan." She pats Alex's hand apologetically. "I'll try to stay on the lookout."

"Don't do anything strenuous," Alex warns before rubbing his hand down his face. "I'm going to go change and crash. I don't know what's happening, but it's going to be big and I want to get some sleep beforehand."

Scott watches his brother leave with a dour expression. Jean tilts her head and picks up a bit of his worry, concern, but he's thinking of her and the kids, not Alex. "What are you so worried about?"

He pulls her closer. "Your parents will probably call you back, after this."

"We don't know what's going on, Scott —"

"Exactly."

* * *

"Doctor Essex, Lord Shaw will see you now."

Essex rises from his seat in the parlor and tries not to roll his eyes. He must do everything he can to keep his mood from his face; if Sebastian doesn't know what’s happened, then he wants to savor the moment when he tells him.

The nameless servant stops in front of Sebastian's door and Essex pushes past with a blank, bright smile on his face. "Lord Shaw,” he says, “so good of you to see me on such short notice."

Shaw looks up from his computer with a small frown, but it lapses into a vaguely magnanimous expression. “Of course, for someone as esteemed as you, Doctor Essex.” He glances at the servant, then back again. “Will you be staying for lunch?”

"I don't believe so, my lord. I know how important and valuable your time is, and how much more it will be shortly."

Shaw looks at him, clearly suspicious, but he sends the servant away with an impatient flick of his wrist. Once the door closes behind him, Sebastian leans back in his chair.

"Care to tell me what's prompted you to visit so spontaneously?"

"I wanted to give you my congratulations in person, my lord." Essex leans forward, practically vibrating. "How did you do it?"

Sebastian barely blinks. "I do a great many things, Essex; to which do you refer?"

Essex's smile grows wider. "Permission to speak freely, my lord?"

Shaw frowns, but stretches to press the small red button on the underside of his desk which activates the anti-surveillance system. "Of course."

"Do you mean to tell me you're not behind the royal accident?"

Shaw's heart beats faster and he leans forward as well. "The royal what?"

"Accident." Nathaniel sits back, stunned. "You really had nothing to do with it?"

"What happened," Shaw says. "And skip the embellishment."

Nathaniel manages to look slightly hurt, but he proceeds. "An explosion. Palace security is certain there's been foul play. Queen Sharon and the royal princes were admitted with injuries –"

"Marko," Sebastian snaps. "What about Marko?"

"He wasn't in the vehicle."

With a curse, Shaw shoves away from his desk and begins to pace. "I didn't do this," he says after a moment. "That means other people are getting bold."

"Who could do this without your knowledge _or_ theirs?" Nathaniel asks.

And Shaw really doesn't know. There aren't too many houses with the connections or the balls to do something like this, and the smaller houses haven’t the means. "This bears further investigation. Exactly how badly injured is the royal family?"

"One of the princes is still in surgery, and Queen Sharon will need some reconstructive surgery. Dermatological," Nathaniel specifies hastily. "She'll still be beautiful after I'm done with her."

"Who is working with you? Anyone we can use for more information?" Sebastian asks. He couldn't care less if Queen Sharon keeps her beauty. He’d prefer her dead.

"I can trust my chief resident, Henry McCoy."

"McCoy?"

"A minor house. Sigil, a bear; motto, _Harm None_."

Shaw snorts aloud at that. "I think I can remember a McCoy at a royal function or two. I don't think I recall meeting a Henry."

"I doubt you have, then. He… stands out.”

And Shaw can read that tone. "A mutant, then?"

"Yes."

"That might turn out to be in our favor." Sebastian nods to himself. "We've got much to do and not much time. Who else knows?"

"There's a gag order in place. No one knows exactly what's wrong, just that something has happened. I believe the appropriate houses will be informed as soon as Steward Marko deems necessary."

Sebastian rolls his eyes. "All it takes is one person to blab and Alison Blaire will open with this on the seven o'clock news. You know what I want you to do. I would suggest you get started. I'll let you know when I get more information."

Essex rises; he knows a dismissal when he hears it. "If I hear anything interesting I'll give you a call."

"No, you'll come here in person. When we discuss this, it will only be in person," Shaw demands.

Essex nods and leaves the room quietly. Sebastian wanders over to his desk, presses the red button again, and then picks up the phone.

"This is Lord Sebastian Shaw – put me through to Phil Coulson."

* * *

The news is only on because if it wasn't, Steve might actually go crazy; he's sure there's more intel coming through Howard's phone right now than there is the television. Alison Blaire, bright smile screwed in place and blonde hair perfectly coiffed, is interviewing Secretary Norton McCoy, who is managing to say absolutely nothing about anything.

" _Unfortunately, for many people, it all boils down to where you stand on Jubilee's Law and nothing else and if we allow-_ "

Steve sits, twiddling his thumbs and watching Tony's fingers fly across his tablet. The teenager's brow is furrowed and his headphones are on. He doesn't really know what's going on, though Steve's sure Howard wants him in the room for a reason. Steve's guess is that the palace personnel on the other end of the line is being none too helpful, because occasionally the interview is drowned out by comments such as, "I employ your entire security staff!" or, "What's your clearance? Then I'd like to speak with your supervisor."

Tony never jumps. Doesn't even really look up. Probably wouldn't even if he could hear.

" _-it seem unfair to assume that metahuman registration is the only issue at hand, when there have been several outspoken factions displeased with the stewardsh-_ "

"Ask for Coulson," Steve says at one point. He's never met the man, but Howard deals with him often; more often than Steve thinks he likes, and certainly more often than he deals with Kurt Marko directly.

"Even if I wanted Marko's spin on all this," Howard says to that, cupping a hand over the receiver, "– and I assure you, I don't – I shouldn't have to go through Coulson. I want to speak to a member of the royal family." He pinches the bridge of his nose and turns back to his desk and the phone. "Get me Hank McCoy." There's a too-long pause, during which Howard rolls his eyes. "Well, he's _my_ doctor, too. I'd like a moment of his time." Howard is on hold for what must be a full five minutes, because Blaire has time to ask, and Norton McCoy time to evade, three questions.

“Yes,” Howard says, exasperated, and then his face changes, more alert, and the next words out of his mouth are simply, "And Charles?"

Steve stiffens and he feels Tony do the same, even though there's a careful foot of space between them on the too-expensive sofa; he's listening, the little sneak.

Howard sighs at the answer he receives and Steve can't tell if it's relief or despair, and then his expression shutters. He’s angry. "I see. We'll head there immediately, then." Tony swipes a hand over his screen and the result is a particularly loud – and Steve suspects purposeful – series of beeps. Howard snaps his fingers at him. It makes Steve want to hop-to as well. "Of course he doesn't. Right, then. You'll keep me up-to-date? And if his condition worsens... yes, thank you. Give your father my regards." Howard ends the call and runs a hand down his face. "McCoy can't tell me exactly what happened," he tells Steve, reaching for the bourbon on his desk, "but Charles' condition is critical. Stable." He sips. "But critical. Marko insists there's no need for us to travel to the capital."

Steve's nostrils flare. "Meaning he forbids it."

"For now, at least," Howard scoffs. "If Charles gets any worse, I promise, I'll let you storm the palace. Hank McCoy can be shy enough, but he has no great love of the Markos. He'll keep me posted."

"For someone so eager to secure this marriage, Marko doesn't seem to want me around much," Steve says, and he immediately regrets the words when he feels Tony tense again and hears his music grow louder.

"Well," Howard sips again, "he's not stupid, is he."


	2. II

It was a hassle, but he doesn't get to the coast often, and the Allerdyce estate sits on a particular stunning track of land. The frothing of the sea against the shore has been entertaining enough while he was forced to wait. He chuckles against the fine bone china cup at his lips and does not get angry. It doesn't do well, to get angry with paying customers. 

The lovely French doors, which separate the balcony from the house proper, whisk open and a plainly-dressed servant steps out, clutching a tablet. A few seconds behind is Lady Felicia Allerdyce. She looks as if she's tasted something slightly sour, and when her gaze falls on Farouk, it becomes quite clear she would prefer to be anywhere but here. Ironic, considering Farouk was summoned.

He rises from his seat fluidly and gives a deep bow, holding the smile on his face. Lady Allerdyce stops before him, her thin hand fluttering somewhere near the large diamond at her neck; it picks up the light like a point of shifting fire. Farouk wishes he'd asked for it as payment over plain money. House relics always fetch a high price. 

"Lady Allerdyce, you grace me with your presence," he simpers, and then attempts to take her hand. 

Lady Allerdyce accepts the tablet from her servant instead and sits down at the table’s light lunch spread. "Merchant Farouk,” she says without looking up at him, “you are too kind. Please sit and enjoy your tea." 

"The wonderful salt air does inflame the appetite," he says with a leer, and he breaks off a few lush grapes from a bunch. Lady Allerdyce's lips purse; he hasn't said anything untoward, but he can see her discomfort. 

"Allerdyce land yields some of the best crops in the country, but you already know that, don't you, Merchant Farouk?" 

"I do." He glances up at the stoic servant posted at the wall. "May I inquire as to the reason of my summons, my lady?" 

Lady Allerdyce's gaze flickers to the servant and with a nearly imperceptible nod she dismisses the man. She says nothing until the large double doors close behind him. 

"You can drop the act," she tells him.

"Do you have my money?" he asks, and Lady Allerdyce hands over the tablet with obvious distaste. 

Farouk takes his time, calling up his bank accounts. Indeed, he finds the money. Distributed unevenly across multiple channels. The deposits completed on different days under different names. He's satisfied nothing looks fishy at first or second glance. 

"I see your accountants follow instructions." 

"Of course they do," she snaps. "And my husband and I would like what we've paid for." 

Farouk nods and tugs an aluminum briefcase from beneath the folds of the table cloth, then slides it across the tile. It wobbles slightly but comes to rest at Lady Allerdyce's sensible pump. Her hands reach to rest on it but she doesn't open it. 

"Is this all of it?" she asks. 

Farouk raises an eyebrow and swallows the last of the tea in his cup. "Of course it is." 

"And how do we know that? We've paid quite a bit of money for this." 

"I assure you, of all the clients… _interested_ in this, you're the only ones who could afford the physical evidence," Farouk says. "I don't give information away for free. Nor do I normally show my face."

Lady Allerdyce smiles. "Does anyone else know who bought this?" 

"My life, and my livelihood, depends on discretion, my lady," Farouk says. "Revealing your secret would reveal mine in kind." 

"As long as this is mutually beneficial. I don’t particularly trust you otherwise." Lady Allerdyce rises with the suitcase. "I assume you can find your own way out?" 

"I can." 

"Then I take my leave; the kingdom is in quite an uproar today." 

"Oh?" Farouk cocks his head. "Has something happened?" Ignorance is always the party line.

Lady Allerdyce snorts at him, because to regular clients, this is an old game. "Good day, Merchant Farouk," she says with a quiet smirk. She doesn't look back, and the double doors remain open behind her, leaving Farouk on the patio with the sound of the water furiously crashing upon the shore. He glances at the tablet again and smiles before he reaches to help himself to a couple of slices of golden, dripping pineapple. 

Mutually beneficial, indeed.

* * *

Stark's – and by extension, Marko's – workshop is quite a sight. Papers, computers, blueprints and plans, everywhere. Brilliant. 

Stark's – and by extension, Marko's – workshop is nothing like this. 

Lehnsherr is bent over a slab of iron with a common blowtorch, mask protecting and obscuring his face. An onlooker might think nothing of it if several of his tools weren't hovering beside his head, ghostlike and unnerving. Tools, weapons, machines, no plans at all, metal, everywhere. Inspired. 

Shaw stretches his mouth into a grin and steps forward to make his presence known. His watch decides not to follow. 

Essex glances down at Shaw's wrist, curious, and Lehnsherr's blowtorch switches off. "Lord Shaw," Lehnsherr says behind his mask. Shaw assumes that's on purpose. Only after a moment of staring at them does he lift it. "I don't believe I'm acquainted with your friend." 

Shaw smiles unwaveringly a moment longer – on purpose as well – before answering. "Apologies." He places a firm hand on Essex's shoulder, like he's proud of him. Laughable. "Lord Nathaniel, House Essex." 

Essex inclines his head. "Lord Lehnsherr," he says. "I'm a great admirer of your work. To see it this —" 

"Do you know what I've discovered, over the years, Lord Essex?" Lehnsherr says, setting his blowtorch aside like he's exhausted of it. He swipes a gloved hand under his nose. "I never seem to care much for anyone who admires my work." 

Essex looks confused, and then mad. It's entirely amusing. "Erik, really," Shaw says, perfunctorily. 

"Does Stark have no time for you, then?" 

"Stark is contracted to the steward," Shaw says. "I have no interest in the steward's ends." 

It gives Lehnsherr clear pause, though Shaw suspects many wouldn't have seen it. "Since when?" 

"Since yesterday morning." 

"The capital bombing." 

"So you do leave this hole occasionally." 

Lehnsherr grins a grin that is similar to his own. "You're not accustomed to asking for help, are you?" he says, and begins peeling his gloves off. "What's the bombing have to do with me? Or you, for that matter?”

"That bombing is the business of everyone in the realm. When the people rise up, it creates... problems." 

"Marko's a steward, and one who's held his position far too long. Why would anyone expect them to do different." Lehnsherr shakes his head and lifts the cool end of his metal slab level with his eyes. "Put the boy on the throne and be done with it." 

"The _boy_ ,” Shaw says, “was in the caravan, along with Cain Marko. Even should he emerge unscathed, it doesn't bode well for his level of support. And I would appreciate your full attention." 

"Then make an appointment, next time." But Lehnsherr lowers the iron and faces him without turning. "What is it you want, Shaw?" 

The grin is entirely unintentional, this time. Shaw can't wipe it from his face even when he gives it a try. 

"An army," he says.

* * *

"Doctor." 

Hank opens his eyes to find his head nurse staring at him with concern in her eyes. She’s also upside down. Which is when he realizes that he fell asleep while hanging from the reinforced pipe above his desk.

"Yes, Susan; I do believe I asked not to be disturbed for a few hours." 

"Yes, Doctor, you did, but you wanted to be alerted when the crown prince regained consciousness." 

The news is relieving enough that it’s a moment before he thinks to respond. "Ah, yes,” he says. “Thank you, Susan." Hank flips and lands silently on his feet. He notices Susan steps back, even though she hadn’t needed to. He adjusts his glasses and grabs the prince’s chart, top of the pile on his desk.

People shift out of his way as he moves toward the royal wing. When the heavy double doors swing shut behind him, the general buzz found anywhere else in the hospital abruptly dulls. Security eyes his badge, as they do every day, but eventually he's allowed to pass the lone armed guard posted outside of the crown prince's room.

"Wilson," Hank says, hoping to spare the conversation. A low grade headache is already beginning to form. 

"Doc, glad to see you. The little prince is awake, long live the king," Wade Wilson says, cheerfully irreverent. "You got anything for a headache? Just came on me, it’s a bitch.”

Hank blinks at him. It seems Wilson gives even himself migraines. "I'll get you something for it,” Hanks says, “just let me take care of the crown prince." 

Wilson nods and opens the door. Amidst the pale blue, non-hospital issue duvet and pillows, the deeply bruised face of Crown Prince Charles looks puffy and painful. But his eyes are open, watching Hank cross the room. 

"Your Highness. How are you feeling?" Hank asks, coming closer. His head throbs, but he ignores it, taking a look at some of the machinery's print-offs. 

"I've been better," Charles says. It’s almost a croak. "My head won’t stop ringing and I can feel every muscle in my body, and they all hurt."

Hank chuckles at his graphs because where his step-brother might have meant it as a complaint, Charles means it as a joke. Of all his family, Charles has always been the most pleasant to see to. "Unfortunately,” Hanks says, “you're going to be sore for quite a while. It's the body's way of letting us know we're lucky to be alive." Hanks sobers and looks the prince over carefully. "Do you know why you're here, Your Highness?" 

"I do believe I'm injured." 

Hank smirks. "I apologize; I mean do you remember anything about the accident?" He watches the expressions flit across Charles' face between the purpling of the bruises and pats his arm gently. "If you don't remember, it'll come back."

"How can I not remember?" Charles asks. He sounds genuinely upset.

"The mind is a funny thing, Your Highness. It can shield us from things until we're better able to process them. I'm going to administer a bit of morphine for your pain; it'll help you sleep and the nurses will be in to attend to your bandages. How does that sound?" 

"Lovelier than I want to admit. Thank you, Hank," Charles whispers. 

Hank watches the young man's eyes flutter shut and marvels at the sympathetic response within humans; as the prince's pain abates, so does a bit of the throbbing behind Hank's eyes. It’s relaxing just to watch someone else relax. He leaves as quietly as possible to find Wilson grinning. 

"I'll be sending a nurse in to tend to the crown prince. Please do let them through with minimal harassment."

Wilson looks wounded. "I will if they're pretty and say they'll go out with me." 

"If they're pretty, they'll never go out with you," Hank says and moves to leave. Then he stops, reaching into his pocket. “Oh, asprin,” he says, patting at himself. 

“Nevermind that, Doc, it’s gone now.”

Hank stares at him a moment, and then hums distractedly, taking his chart from the crook of his arm and going.

"Hey, Doc." Hank pauses and turns back. "Is that guy going to get better?" 

Only Wade Wilson would call the crown prince of Genosha _that guy_. "I have all the faith in the world that he'll recover," Hank says. Wilson nods. 

"That means if he lives, you did your best, but if he croaks, it was all in God's hands, right?" He winks and stands at attention once more, shaking his head. "Doctors." 

Hank doesn't deign to give him more than a disapproving look. _Young people_ , he thinks and does not say, before continuing down the corridor.

* * *

"We should have taken a driver. I could have left my car," Alex says. 

It's the first words of the third day of their trip, even though it's nearly noon. Scott seems particularly tense this morning, hands tight on the wheel, and it's starting to wear on Alex more than a little. It might be that they're getting farther from Jean and Nathan with every mile, or it might be that they're getting closer to the Grey estate – where Alex is sure they'll be stopping tonight – and then the capital. Scott has never liked the capital; his mutation is a lot harder to hide than Alex's. 

"I don't think Marko's going to be too pleased to see me," Scott says, without looking away from the road. "I don't want any more media on our arrival than there has to be. You could have taken a driver home, too." 

The silence returns until Alex's phone beeps. Scott finally looks at him as he's fishing it out of his pocket and Alex stares at it for a good minute – impeccable, palace-issue StarkTech. 

"Well?" Scott says when he tires of waiting. 

Alex swallows. "McCoy," he tells him. And then, "Charles is awake." 

The car nearly swerves. "How is he?" 

"He didn't say." But Alex is texting McCoy back, for all the good it'll do him; the text he received was a forward to all relevant palace personnel. "But I imagine if it were still touch-and-go, it would have said." 

"Is Steve there?" 

"Wasn't when I left," Alex says. "But I wouldn't be surprised if he is now." He stops, thumb poised over his touch screen. "Stark's probably having a shit-fit. Any security that survived that explosion'll be out of a job by now."

“Good.”

"Good?" Alex shakes his head, tapping away. "Took me years to break those men in. And who knows who he'll pick to replace them. You trust Stark?" 

"Not particularly," Scott says. "I trust Rogers." 

Alex only sighs then, because that's fair enough. And Stark might not pick the most trustworthy, but he'll pick the best. There could be worse people on Marko's payroll, all things considered. Alex still believes Howard Stark more on their side than the steward's, should this whole thing come down to that. And people follow money. 

Alex bites his lip and stops typing before the text is finished. "What if Charles dies?" He's really not sure if he's asking as the friend who grew up with him or as a head of the Summers household. It gets Scott's attention. 

"He's not going to die, Alex. He's awake, he'll be fine." 

"This time. And then what? Cain Marko? Victor Creed?" 

He hears Scott hiss. Angry humans on the throne or angry mutants? Either is far from ideal. "Creed's a soldier. He's no king, claim or no." 

"Tell him that." The only soldier Alex would want to see on the throne is Rogers or his own brother, and though neither is likely, the sooner they get Charles married off to the good captain, the better for them all. Unfortunately, he's sure Marko knows that. "I should speak with Stark."

Scott glances at him. Even with the visor, his eyes are always so easy to read. He follows Alex's thoughts just fine. "You'll spread sedition —" 

"I'll spread loyalism," Alex snaps. "Plotting against Marko is _not_ plotting against the king. Might even do him good to learn that." 

"Alex, you listen to me," Scott says, and for a moment, Alex thinks he might pull the car over, but he doesn't. "Charles is fine. _Fine_. There's no reason to go preparing for his death." 

"I'm hoping to prepare for his reign," Alex says. "But at the very least, I want Rogers here, where he can keep an eye on him. I want to know Stark backs _us_. And if, God forbid, something does happen to Charles, I want Rogers in Hammer Bay, in a legal position to overpower Marko. It's time to move this wedding forward." 

"You really think Marko’s going to agree to that during all this upset? That bombing was about him, and he has to know it. He won't be doing anything in the near future to secure Charles's position." 

"Then we get Stark to threaten to pull military funding." 

Scott scoffs and Alex can’t even blame him. "You think you can get him to agree to that?" 

Alex isn't at all sure he can, in fact. Stark has no hatred of mutants, but then, the mutant factions Marko's armies stand against are not mutants like Alex and his brother. And above all, Stark follows what's best for his own house.

"I'm hoping I can appeal to whatever might remain of his better nature," Alex says. "I think we have to try." He looks out his window. Scott is speeding where he wasn't before. "For Charles and for the realm."

* * *

The actual house of House Stark is enormous, and Steve has never gotten used to it. He's lived in it nearly as long as he ever did in his old neighborhood, and it's home, but it's not him. It's full of echoes and too quiet all at once, and it's even worse on nights when he can't sleep. 

The light is already on in the kitchen and Steve's eyes aren't prepared for it. It takes him time to adjust, takes him even longer to see Tony sitting at a bar stool, hunched over the island counter. Steve's mind stutters for entirely too long a moment. It's been over a month since he's been alone in a room with Tony. He would have put on a shirt if he had known he would be in here. 

"Something on my face?" Tony says, and he's joking but he's not smiling. 

"You shouldn't be up," is what Steve comes up with, and he knows instantly he should have phrased it as a question instead. 

Tony just _looks_ at him, because treating a genius like the kid he is is always an odd balance. Or maybe he’s just being a teenager. He stabs at his bowl of ice cream. "Sorry. It's my kitchen too." It's not really Steve's kitchen at all, but it would never occur to Tony to think that, let alone say it. There's never been a time since he's been alive that Steve wasn't there. "Relax," he says when Steve still doesn't move. "S'not like it's a school night or something." 

Summer break. Tony won't be back at university – back in the capital – for another month, and Steve is more than grateful for that, with the current political climate. He wants him nowhere near all that. 

Tony extends his spoon toward him. "Rocky Road?" 

Steve snorts before he can stop himself. "I'm good." And he goes to the refrigerator for a bottled water. As soon as he's unscrewed it and taken a sip, he moves back for the door.

"Really?" Tony says to that, and so Steve stops with a sigh. He turns and very deliberately pulls out the stool across from Tony, seating himself. 

"We've talked about this." 

"I'm not mad about that," Tony says, almost yelling, but then he's poking at his ice cream again, avoiding Steve's eyes like he's embarrassed by his own noise. "You just… _this_ ," He gestures between the two of them and the door, “ever since.”

"I've been busy." 

"You've been avoiding me." 

"You blame me?" Steve winces because Tony does. "Sorry," he amends. "That wasn't... what I meant." This isn't Tony's fault, after all, or even solely his problem. 

"Doesn't matter anyway," Tony says. "Leaving for Hammer Bay at the end of the week, aren't you? You and dad." 

Steve swallows, rubs a thumb through the condensation on his water bottle. "He needs to meet up with Stane and look into their security, hire and fire." 

"And you?" Tony says to his bowl, like he has the right to be petulant about this. 

"I'll be checking on Charles," Steve says without hesitation. Conviction is all he has. "He needs us there." 

"I want to come." 

"Absolutely not." Steve forces a deep breath because the surge of protectiveness is nearly overwhelming, threatens to outweigh his reason. "I can't worry about all this and you." 

"I have to go back to school eventually, anyway." 

"Things could be entirely different by then," Steve says. "I'm not taking you directly into danger – don't ask me to."

"Oh, and you think it's easy for me to watch you march into it?" 

There’s a retort still on his lips, because Steve watched Tony take his first steps, and there’s no way Tony can really understand any of _this_ yet. Not yet. The effects of these politics on real people. War. Watching friends die. Loving someone else more than yourself. 

But Steve stops that when he looks up at him from his water. Tony isn't trying to win the argument. Tony's _terrified_. He's not even trying to keep it off his face. It slows Steve down, but the answer is still the same. 

"I'm not your responsibility." 

Tony glares at him a moment and then stands, grabs his bowl and drops it in the stainless steel sink so hard it nearly breaks. "Asshole," he says on his way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the reviews, guys. This or Fridays will probably be general update time.


	3. III

"I should be there." 

"Your Majesty, you need to rest. You're still not completely well and your presence would only stir the media." 

"He's my son. He needs me." 

Ororo says nothing to that, because it can’t particularly be argued. She watches the queen shift restlessly on the reclining chaise, thoughts clearly far away from the companion at her side. 

"I should be there with him." 

"Until a few days ago, you were, ma’am." 

Sharon takes a swallow of her drink; any progress she’d recently made in cutting back had been abandoned in the name of numbing the pain of her minor injuries. Slim brown hands settle over hers and gently pry the tumbler from her grip. "I think you've had enough, ma’am." 

Sharon sighs. "Ororo, what would I do without you?" 

Ororo smiles politely and motions for a servant to remove the tray of alcohol from the table. 

"You would go mad with boredom." 

"I don't have time for this," Sharon mutters. "I can't move about my own kingdom as I see fit. When will this investigation conclude?" 

"When you're safe. We all love you, Your Majesty. We don't want to see anything happen to you." Ororo smiles and reaches for the small bakery box she brought, eager to lighten the mood. "I picked up a few of those pastries that you love – the apple dollop cookies?" 

Sharon accepts the cookies, but she watches Ororo closely, like she’s debating her trust in her, which Ororo knows she’s never done before. "Not everyone loves me," she says after a moment. 

Ororo looks at her with her wide, strangely blue eyes and frowns, disturbed. "Why would you say that?" 

"I've read the polls,” Sharon scoffs. “The steward and I are not so popular, right now. Half the realm believes we're not doing enough for your people —" 

"My people, Your Majesty?" Ororo tilts her head; her nobility has always opened doors for her. 

"Mutants, my dear. Mutants." Sharon closes her eyes and takes another cookie. "All the metahumans. I can hear them rumbling, upset." 

"Then what do you plan to do?" 

Sharon meets her eyes, but doesn’t answer. Ororo doubts she really knows; the fingerprints on palace policy are always Marko’s. "Amahl has been acting strangely since we've returned," she says instead. 

"Farouk is always strange, ma’am," Ororo says. "Would you like me to find out...?" The rest is lost in understanding; if Farouk is a weasel, Ororo is a fox.

"No. I'm just jumping at shadows." 

"You should, if someone is casting them," Ororo says. "Have another cookie." 

Sharon obeys with feigned reluctance. "You're horrible for my figure." 

Ororo snorts. "Many women would kill for your figure, Your Majesty, forgive me saying." 

"No, I think you should say that every day," Sharon breezes. Her bandaged hand spasms and she drops it to her lap. "Ororo, I'm worried." 

"About the crown prince?" 

"Among other things. Can't you feel it? Times are changing."

Ororo can feel it, but she doesn’t feel the need to say she can. She smiles instead and silently offers another cookie.

* * *

For the past few hours the only sound in the office has been the scratch of Erik's pen across paper and the infrequent phone calls his secretary, a young mutant called Marie, makes on his behalf. It's soothing, at times, to get away from the workshop and take care of the business end. Erik's father, Jakob, loved numbers and would tell Erik about how he could make them dance. Before he knew what real abilities looked like, Erik used to think his father was a mutant.

There’s a smile tugging at his lips, and when he looks up from his work, a pretty, blonde woman is standing in front of his desk, leaving him a little embarrassed to be caught grinning at nothing. 

"How did you get back here?" He rises from his seat. "Marie!"

The eyes shift first, green to gold. The peach color of her skin ripples into familiar blue scales. "I was trying out a new face," Raven says, pleased in a way she reserves for when she thinks she's put one over on Erik. Those times are rare. 

"Why?" Erik asks suspiciously. "Is it because I asked you to run those errands?" 

He's seen the news feeds; mutants are getting harassed more and more lately and the general consensus seems to be _oh, that's too bad._ Nothing from the Crown. Raven is far from inconspicuous.

"Just flexing the muscles, boss. Nothing serious." 

He reaches to close the door to his office. "Where the hell's Marie?" 

"Gave her the rest of the day off. We're ahead of schedule and we have no clients coming in for the next two days. Besides, you said you had something you wanted to tell me." The apprehension is noticeable only in the set of her shoulders. She slips gracefully into the chair in front of his desk and waits. 

Erik stares at the back of her red head fondly. He knows if anyone can stand up to him and tell him he's being an idiot, Raven will. Which is why he's telling her.

He takes his seat, easing into a slouch, and tells her everything Shaw and Essex reported to him. Throughout, Raven doesn't interrupt once. She sits straight in the chair, her expression a firm blankness Erik recognizes as her poker face. 

"What do you want to do?" she asks, tonelessly. 

Erik shrugs one shoulder. "I think you know how I feel about the current Crown." 

Raven snorts. "This is serious. If you fail, if Sebastian fails, then it's going to be labeled as treason. Your house will fall and your name will be ruined. The name of your father and mother ruined. Are you sure you want to do this?"

"My parents are dead," Erik says flatly. "Their name wasn’t what they fought for. And what about you? I care about more than just myself. I want you to be able to walk out the door as blue as you want to be. As blue as you are. You’re beautiful."

Raven turns away, suddenly embarrassed. "So, Shaw?" she says. "Are you sure we can trust him?" 

Something blooms warm in his chest when she says _we_ ; he could use all the help he can get. "I haven't had much experience with him since I was a child, but I have no reason to doubt him." He looks at her meaningfully. Raven smiles and uncrosses her legs.

"Why don't I make sure there's nothing out there that could bite us on the ass. Then I'll tell you what I think." 

Erik nods. "Fair enough." 

Raven hesitates before she rises from the chair. "We tried, right?" she asks. Erik just looks at her. "We tried with the marching and the rallies and the public awareness. We really tried, right?" 

Erik can hear his mother's voice through the bullhorn. _"They are still your children, your brothers and sisters, your parents! It is not them and us, it is we!"_ Long dead, now.

"Yes,” he says, “we most certainly tried."

* * *

"Jean's called ahead," Scott says, biting at his lip and easing the car up the long, sleek driveway, and Alex sees immediately how he knows that – there's a small contingent of wait staff standing on the lawn, visible even a good fifty yards away.

The Grey estate is smaller than the Summers' – by far, in fact – but it's in many ways a good deal more stately. Better kept, likely better staffed, tidy and expensive, not the sprawling castle that is their own home father north. It takes a lot to intimidate Alex; he rubs elbows with the Markos and Starks and his own House is the third oldest in Genosha.

The Greys intimidate him. 

"Better than just showing up, isn't it?" he offers as the car draws closer. He imagines Jean's parents won't take too kindly to them even when they're expected, let alone if they hadn't been. Alex pauses as he moves to unbuckle his seat belt. "Do they know?" 

"Know what?" Scott says, putting the car in park and watching warily as an elderly gentleman in coattails approaches. 

"The baby." 

Scott looks at him then. "Jesus, _no_. Shut up about it." 

"Think they're going to notice when there's a second kid the next visit out." 

"Alex." 

There's no chance to respond before Scott's door is opened for him. Seconds later, so is Alex’s; there’s barely time to exchange a look.

There are five people. Arthur, who runs the household and is shaking Scott's hand, is the only one Alex recognizes. John and Elaine are nowhere to be found. 

"This way, Master Summers," Arthur says to Scott, because Arthur adores him and has no great love at all for Alex. However respectable he might have turned out, to Arthur, Alex is still the kid who used to gleefully set his dog loose upon the Grey cats. Alex still doesn't believe his mutation comes into the dislike, and for that, he admires Arthur. 

Arthur is all of five feet tall, though Alex remembers him taller, and must be pushing seventy by now. Alex watches him trudge up the front steps with no small amount of sympathy and wonders why someone else doesn't see to carrying their bags. He doesn't dare offer to carry them himself. 

When they finally make it through the front doors, Arthur sets their luggage down for now and continues straight through the marble tiled foyer out the French doors at the back. The sunlight is bright out here on the veranda, and there's the sound of laughter. 

John and Elaine sit at a shaded table, he in golf shorts and she in a wide-brimmed hat, sipping coffee with guests, another couple about their age. Elaine waves Scott and Alex over when she sees them. 

"I swear to God, Alex. Nothing about you-know-what," Scott murmurs out of the corner of his mouth. Alex resists the urge to roll his eyes but says nothing; he understands the pressure his brother is under and no matter how much it might amuse him on good days, he doesn't want to contribute to the heartache he only reveals when they're alone. “Elaine, John, good afternoon.” 

John Grey inclines his head with a wide and easy smile. "Scott, Alexander. So good of you to come.”

Alex nods at the other couple, as yet unintroduced. "We didn't mean to intrude," he says. 

"No intrusion. Please, sit. This is Captain George Stacy and Mrs. Helen Stacy. Lords Scott and Alexander of House Summers." 

"Lord Alexander Summers?" Stacy says as he extends a hand. "It is quite a pleasure." 

Elaine gestures and a servant steps up to the table to pour tall glasses of cool tea with lemon. Alex accepts George's handshake and the glass of tea gratefully and Scott does the same. 

"Captain Stacy!" Alex then exclaims, and Scott nearly spits out his tea. "I knew I'd heard the name. I do believe we've spoken a few times on the phone." 

"We have. With so much on your plate, I'm surprised you remember me." 

"I remember the competent ones," Alex assures him. Captain Stacy looks gruffly proud, and his wife pats him on the wrist. 

"We've seen you on television, Lord Summers. You are so very busy to be such a young man," Helen Stacy says with a smile. "You must be very good at your job." 

"I hope so, yes," Alex says. As much as he jokes around, he does take his work very seriously and he's been through a lot to make sure everyone knew his appointment wasn't due purely to his house. "I appreciate the compliment, ma'am."

"Oh my, don't make the poor woman feel old," Elaine says. "Everyone is quite proud of Lord Alex, especially during this trying time." 

"Here, here," John says, raising his glass. Scott and Alex follow without a thought, but Alex can feel the heat on his cheeks and he hopes the blush isn't too visible. 

"Thanks, John, for the game," Captain Stacy says as he and his wife rise from the table. "I'll beat you one day." 

John smirks. "So we're changing games after twenty years?" he jokes. "Elaine and I would love to host you for the season coming soon, if you can get away." 

"We'll call you," Elaine says, planting slight kisses on Mrs. Stacy’s cheeks. "Please be safe." She waves and Scott and Alex nod their farewells. "Would you like to order anything?" Elaine asks the brothers once the Stacys have gone. 

"No, we're fine with the tea, thank you," Scott says. 

"You'll stay overnight, won't you? I'm sure Alex would agree it's safer," John says with fondness. 

"We accept your graciously offered hospitality," Scott says with an incline of his head. 

"Listen to him, 'graciously offered hospitality,'" John says to his wife. "You're not speaking to the king, son." It feels to Alex more like a jab at Scott than true humility, and so when John looks to him like he expects a laugh, Alex doesn't. John settles back in his chair. "How's the road?" 

"Long," Alex says, because they are far from the capital for such a high house, and because it has felt long. "More traffic than usual, I'd say. And none going our way, which is a bit unsettling."

"If there can be violence inside the capital walls, it can be anywhere. These terrorists are getting brave," John says. "And the rats always know when to jump ship. To that end," And he looks to Scott, "I think it's best if Jean and Nathan come here for a while. There's been talk and I imagine that bombing won't be the last."

"Our estate is farther from the capital —" 

"And you will be away God knows how long seeing to this – she shouldn't be alone." 

Scott stares at John a moment and then sits back in his chair with a scoff. "You've already sent for her." 

"When we spoke to her about your stopping here, yes. It's for the best. I don't see what the problem is." 

"I don't mind her being here," Scott says, though he shifts in his seat and Alex knows he's thinking of the baby, "but I like to be consulted about my own family."

"Legally speaking, son, this is still my family," John says and Alex's eyebrows lift. He sips at his tea so he won't say something stupid, but Scott is already leaning forward again to do it for him. 

" _Legally_ speaking," he says, "Nathan is still my heir. And you've no claim on him." 

"Boys," Elaine says, and Scott backs off like a popped balloon, averting his eyes and taking a drink.

"You said there's been talk," Alex says into the silence that follows, because Scott's concerns might only be for his family, but this is Alex's job. "Of what?" 

"Of factions," John tells him, because Elaine looks uneasy with saying it. "People trading all the intel they can get. Planning other attacks." 

"Says who?" 

"The ol' Shadow King himself." 

Alex grits his teeth. "Farouk is —" 

"— informed," John says, like that's the end of it. "Always informed. No one can say otherwise. I couldn't care less how he plans to weasel himself through all this, but I'll take what he knows and use it if it means protecting my own house." 

"And how exactly did he claim to have discovered all this?" Alex doesn't doubt Farouk's ends, only his means. 

"I didn't ask." 

Alex doesn't bother to keep the irritation from his face. "I shouldn’t have to remind you of your duty to the Crown," he says with far more ease than he feels. 

Elaine looks surprised at his tone but John's expression is calculating, as if he's taking measure of Alex, but Alex is hardly cowed. He wouldn't be the first noble to underestimate him. 

"We've only heard whispers and conjectures, really, Alex,” Elaine says. “We would've stepped forward if we had anything concrete. It wouldn't do to falsely accuse a loyal house, in these times. Surely you understand." 

Alex does, of course he does, but this isn't business as usual. "And who has Farouk been whispering about? For what price? Is that why you didn't ask where this intel came from? Because it came free?" 

"Information does tend to be expensive," Scott murmurs to Alex, and John gives him a curt nod. 

"I'm not going to pay a cent more than I have to; what does it matter how he got the information? The Shadow King doesn't spread lies, just very expensive truth." John pauses. "He did mention he's been speaking with House Allerdyce. And one doesn't have to be head of royal security to know they plan on making as much money as possible with whatever information they've bought." 

"Agreed," Alex says, already standing. "I might not be able to stay overnight Lord and Lady Grey; the situation in the capital requires my attention even more than I realized." 

"Of course, Lord Alex. Our home is your home for as long as you need," Elaine says. Her voice is perfectly nonchalant, but the way her eyes follow him lets Alex know she's as hungry for information as she purports the Allerdyces to be. And he can’t even blame her for it.

* * *

"You seem to think you have some sort of choice, convict."

Logan scratches his chin. How would it feel, he wonders, to slam his claws through the man's head?

"I have a healing factor, bub," he tells him. "Ain't nothing your doctors can do that my body hasn't already done." 

The door to the examination room opens and Logan rises, along with his temper. 

"Now look, if you're going to send me back to my cell, then send me back to my cell. I don't need a doctor!" 

Hank McCoy looks him up and down, adjusts his glasses. "Yes, well,” he says, unimpressed, “that much is obvious. You're one hundred percent healthy. Your healing is truly amazing; I've never seen anyone with such recovery speed. Quite remarkable." 

"Doc, I've been flattered less by people who actually wanted in my pants. What do you want?" 

"I'm going to take you to someone who wants to thank you." 

"No thanks needed," Logan says. "Just let me go back to my cell. Maybe get me a cigar that doesn't fall apart from tobacco rot." 

"I’m afraid Prince Cain insists." 

Logan could spit if he wanted to waste saliva on _Prince_ Cain. "Yeah, consider me thanked." 

Doctor McCoy snorts and reveals all his long fangs in what is probably a smile. He doesn’t seem as annoyed with Logan’s insubordination as he might expect of palace personnel, but then, he is clearly a mutant. "Please, wash your face,” he says. “We'll be taking you to him shortly." 

Logan watches him leave the room, taking the opportunity to stare at the fur. Then he turns to the smirking guard. 

"Don't think I can't gut you like a fish," he growls and the grin drops. 

"Just make yourself presentable," the guard says. "You mutie freaks get the chance to be thanked by the prince himself and you don't even know what an honor it is. Figures." 

Logan unsheathes the claws on his right hand and revels in the cloying smell of fear. "Come say that to my face, bub," he says. "I'll chew through your sidearm before you even get a round off." The fear ratchets up; Logan almost wants to crack a window. He retracts his claws and goes to the trouble of throwing some water on his face. His prison grays will have to suffice. If he'd known who it was he was pulling from the wreckage, he probably wouldn't have bothered. 

Logan looks up when another guard comes to the door and the circus is underway. Various medical staff members stop to stare at him as he goes by. The antiseptic smell is messing with his head and it’s making him even more irritable. He really doesn't want a bullet to the back of the head when he's already nursing a headache. A particularly loud whiff of ammonia sets him reeling and he almost runs into the door. 

"Turn the knob, freak," his guide stage whispers, and Logan does it because he has nowhere to run. 

Once inside, the lights pop like twinkling stars; the media are there in full force, arranged in front of Prince Cain as if he were their salvation. If Logan wasn't already sick to his stomach he would be now. 

"Ah, my benefactor. Welcome!" 

Cain Marko is a large boy – no, man – with a square head and devious eyes. He's resting in a cushy wheelchair. He smells like fear when Logan moves forward, the chattering of the media like an insect in his ear. "This man, this brave man, is the reason why my family is still alive. In the name of the Crown, I thank you." 

Cain looks at him, waiting, and Logan realizes he's expected to kneel. He bows shortly at the waist instead. "I did what anyone would do," he says, clipped.

"Nonsense. Your bravery is something special. I wanted to thank you. Come, the reporters want a couple of pictures of you and me. We should oblige them." 

Cain Marko's _we're buddies_ act grates on Logan's nerves, and for some reason he cannot fathom, he allows Cain to draw him in close by the wrist and then smiles stiffly for a few pictures. A few photos are not worth pissing off royalty. 

As soon as the media is ushered from the room, Cain's smile starts to drop off. He rises out of the wheelchair stiffly, obviously injured, but not badly. 

"Logan, right?” Cain says, taking the whiskey tumbler a servant steps forward to offer. “Didn't catch your last name." 

"Logan _is_ the last name." 

Cain shrugs because it clearly doesn't really matter. "So what do you want?" 

Logan blinks. "What do you mean, what do I want?" 

"You save my life and my brother’s. I know you want something in return, especially when I find out you're a convict. So what is it?"

"Why don't you tell me, Your Highness." The title is stressed with irony, as Logan feels it should be. There’s no royal blood in this kid. He's played with him, and Logan doesn't know the rules quite yet.

"Your freedom?" Cain swallows more of his drink and shakes his head. "No can do; what else do you want?" 

"I didn't ask for my freedom," Logan says. 

Cain looks mildly surprised. "A prisoner who doesn't want freedom? You must've done something bad." 

"I must've, if I'm in jail." Logan is bored and he doesn't know how long he can resist ripping Cain's spine out inch by agonizing inch. "I'd like to go back to my cell." 

"You'll go back to your cell when I tell you to go back," Cain snaps. The bruise on his neck looks indecent against the bright red flush of his anger. Logan stares silently until Cain becomes unnerved. "You may go," he says imperiously. "Maybe a few days in solitary will learn you some manners, but from what I've read of your file, you're not much more than a raging animal. We put animals down, Mister Logan. Remember that."

Logan doesn't bother to respond and he's shown the door; it takes all his energy to keep his temper tamped down. Doctor McCoy comes forward, amazingly quiet on such large, clawed feet, and he murmurs something to the lead guard. 

They don't leave by the same corridor they came, and Logan is able to breathe more easily, away from the harsh chemicals. The windows have been opened, and suddenly Logan is depressed; the last time he had quality fresh air was on the chain gang.

"Prince Charles would like to speak to you, too,” Doctor McCoy says, and Logan doesn’t know what to make of that. The door they approach is under armed guard, and the sentry doesn’t speak when they approach. A woman, Logan notes with interest. McCoy calls her Hill. "He's still very injured,” he then says to Logan, “so please try not to rile him."

Logan hasn’t seen Prince Charles since before the king died; he doubts the kid remembers. Lying in the hospital bed, he seems almost comically small, and Logan sniffs tentatively. He can see the prince's eyes on him as Logan comes closer, but there isn't any fear. 

"Mister Logan," Prince Charles says with a rasp. "I wanted to thank you personally for saving my family. It was very brave." 

Logan looks around and there's no one in the room save a nurse, clearing the supplies for a sponge bath. No media, no grandstanding. "It was my pleasure," Logan says, and finds it’s the truth. "You in any pain?" 

Charles nods. "To be expected, I'm told, when you pick a fight with a bomb." 

Logan can sympathize only with immediate pain; his body dulls it so quickly, it’s remembered more in sepia. "You want some blood?" he asks, gruffly. 

Charles blinks at him like a deer and Doctor McCoy steps closer to them, cautious. Logan supposes he’s the one who’ll be blamed for letting him in, if Logan proves insane. 

"What are you offering, Logan?" he asks.

"My healing factor. If I gave some of my blood to Prince —" 

"Please, call me Charles." 

Logan nods. "If I give some to Chuck, here, he'll be better in a few hours." 

McCoy takes a step forward again, like he can’t quite help it. He looks fascinated. "How do you know this? It isn't in your file." 

Logan glares at him. "Of course it's not in my file,” he says. “Would you tell this regime something like that?” He flips a hand at Charles. “No offense, kid.”

"None taken,” Charles says, and Logan can’t really tell if he’s telling the truth. “I don't want you to feel as if you have to. I’m perfectly willing to recuperate on my own." Charles tries to sit up then, but McCoy's large hand stops him gently. 

"I don't mind. Strap me in," Logan says. For Charles’ father, at least, who was a good man.

"I'll owe you a favor for this," Charles says and Logan doesn’t protest that. While he won’t insist on it, he’s not fool enough to turn it down. 

"You willing to be in debt to a man like me?"

It’s a joke, but Charles looks at him, really looks at him. Then he nods. “I believe so, yes.”

"You heard the man, Doc," Logan says and rolls up his sleeve. "And can someone get me a cigar?"

* * *

It's less than a day's drive from the Grey estate to the capital, but Alex travels it at night and arrives on the wrong side of the sunrise, when the bay's waters are still dark and choppy. He's exhausted, but he's done worse. Sleep is for other people - people with less demanding jobs. 

The city gates weren't closed when he left, but they sure as hell are now, and from the looks of things, the wall guard has been doubled. Standard operating procedure. Alex sighs and reaches into his pocket with a squirm, rooting for his ID as he approaches the north entrance. He passes three sets of checkpoints, but isn't stopped until the doors, which he assumes is only thanks to the government tags on his license plates. 

"Sir," the guard says with a nod to him. He recognizes his boss even if Alex can't recall his name. "Identification, please." 

Good man. Alex hands his card over, glancing warily at the gates. "How long has the lockdown been authorized?" 

"Week minimum, sir." He hands the ID back and steps back, waving Alex through. 

Barton is waiting for him in the parking lot, dressed in black and looking appropriately forgettable. He falls into step with Alex the moment he's out of his car. "Coulson says to bring you directly to him." 

"Does he, now." It's not that Alex particularly minds Coulson. For someone so close to Marko, he could be a lot worse. The man just has a tendency to take liberties with Alex's department. 

"I think he's in a good mood today," Barton says with a grin. Alex chuckles at him. A good mood looks just like a bad mood on Coulson; military security through and through, whether Marko has him running his errands now or not. Sometimes, Alex thinks maybe the guy isn't trying to piss him off. Maybe he just misses doing something useful.

"All right. Make sure I have the rotations for the next twelve hours," Alex says. "I want to approve the teams personally." 

"Yes, sir. I'll have it for you in your office in ten." 

"Good. Anything pressing I need to know?"

"Not at this time, sir," Barton says, and they turn the corner to find Coulson waiting for them, or, what Alex calls _standing at attention_. Apparently you can't take the military out of the man no matter how much you beat him. 

"Coulson," Alex says in lieu of a greeting. 

"Summers. Thank you for being prompt. That will be all, Barton," Coulson says, as if he's capable of dismissing him. 

Barton shoots Alex a look and he nods. Barton will leave when Alex tells Barton to leave. When they're alone, Alex turns to Coulson with a frown. "How long are you going to continue bossing around my staff, Phil?" 

"As long as it continues to amuse me, Summers." 

Alex rolls his eyes, but grins and follows Coulson down the hall. "What do you want? I'm sure you know we're very busy right now and I have security details to look over, calling in off-duty personnel —" 

"I need your help coordinating the return of the crown prince and Cain Marko to the palace. They've been deemed fit to travel and it's far safer here than the hospital." 

"McCoy tells me Wilson and Hill are posted outside Charles' door," Alex says. "Doubt it gets much safer than that."

"Wilson is a wildcard and I'm not arguing with you. I couldn't count on all my appendages and yours how many calls I've had to field today. If you're going to complain about going from point A to B, tell it to Barton while I do something useful." 

"And here Clint thought you were in a good mood." 

"Barton annoys me less than you do." 

"Lies. I bet you tell him the same thing about me. I'm on to you, Coulson." 

"Summers. Just," Coulson stops walking and faces him, "do your job, so I can do mine." 

"Sir, yes, sir." Alex thinks about saluting him, but Coulson might knock the wind out of him just for the fun of it, so he doesn't. He's probably pushing it, as is. 

Coulson's eyes travel over his face like he's studying Alex's sincerity. "All right, then," he says, and turns to leave him. "Bring him home." 

Him, Alex thinks as he watches Coulson go. Him.

* * *

Steve watches as the limo pulls through the east gate; the guards check the automobile with single-minded determination. Dogs sniff the car, and mirrors are run along the sides. The energy outside seems to be as charged as inside, what with Howard furiously typing on his various electronics. 

"We're almost there," Steve reminds him, when he huffs with impatience. 

Howard glances at him. "I know," he says, and returns to the hundreds of reports he's probably receiving. Steve is beyond taking the terse answers personally; a Howard connected to the Internet is a Howard perpetually distracted and a little short. Goodness knows Tony is used to it, and though Steve would never dare tell him, much the same way. He feels a bit of a pang in his chest at the thought of Tony. He doesn't at all want him here, but he wants him here. 

"Captain, Lord Stark?" The door to the limo is opened and Steve wonders for a moment when they reached the inner grounds. He doesn't bother to respond but he nods at the man sent to receive them – Phil Coulson, he introduces himself as. Nice to have a face for the name. And standing next to him, Obadiah, looking far more pleased to see them than Coulson.

Steve allows Howard's strides to outpace his own so that he can reach them first. Obadiah immediately slips an arm over his shoulders while Coulson looks on. “Howard,” he says, jostling him. Then, “Steve.”

“Stane,” Steve says, not impolitely. Obadiah smirks at him; Steve knows the use of his first name was as deliberate as his use of Stane’s last.

“No Tony, then?” Obadiah asks, and it must be directed at Howard, but he’s still looking at Steve. Neither answer him, Howard because it’s surely the last thing on his mind right now, and Steve because he doesn’t make a habit of taking bait.

Coulson steps forward then to offer Howard a handshake. "Welcome back to the palace. We're glad to have you."

"Are you?" Howard asks, a direct echo of Steve's own thoughts. 

Coulson doesn't address that, even though Steve knows it wasn't rhetorical, even though he would guess Coulson knows that too. "I've studied your exploits, Captain. It's an honor," he says instead. "And Lord Stark, I'm hoping you'll be the answer to a good deal of my problems. Now that you and Lord Summers are back in the capital, I can start delegating security issues to you." 

"If you're so happy to see me then why have I been stymied every time I asked for intel?" 

"I do apologize. I’m sure that Steward Marko will make sure you get the information that you need." Coulson's expression is just open enough for Steve to read what's under it – a surprising amount of sympathy. 

Apparently Howard reads the same message because the angry tension leaks from his shoulders, along with Stane’s arm. "Thank you, Phil," he says. "I understand it's been a trying time for the palace." 

"Yes, sir. Please, follow me." And he turns to lead them along. "Your usual quarters in the south wing have been prepared. The city, as I'm sure you noticed, is currently on lockdown. Only government officials in and out, and nobility on political business. School openings have been pushed back and commercial roads are closed until further notice."

"The university too?" Steve asks.

"For now." 

"Good," Howard says, and Steve agrees. "God spare us Tony alone on the roads." It's said to his tablet again, and Steve doesn’t bother to comment; this isn't the place to rehash that argument. Obadiah just chuckles.

"I've emailed you a list of all security personnel on duty at the time of the bombing," Coulson says over that. "How you want to deal with them is your affair, Marko agrees." 

Howard scoffs under his breath. "Bombs are planted. Get me street detail and drivers, too. And garage staff." 

"Yes, sir." 

"Anything else?" 

Coulson stops, so they all do as well. "Sir?" 

"Left out of the report," Howard says. Steve knows Coulson is holding something back, not by Coulson's face, which is rather inscrutable, but by Howard's. "Anything you want to come clean about?" 

Coulson watches Howard's seeming nonchalance. Apparently he knows it as the threat Steve does, because he decides to go for truth. "There... is a hero," he says, like there's more to that. 

"A hero." It isn't a question, and Steve realizes it came from him. 

"Yes." Coulson offers his clipboard, which Steve sees is actually a Stark tablet as well. Howard leans over it, but doesn't try to prize it from him. 

"Huh," he says. "John Logan. This was all you could find?" 

"All anyone could find," Obadiah says. 

Steve steps forward, but he doesn't catch much before Coulson is tugging the tablet back to his chest. "A cage fighter?" Steve asks. 

"I want to meet him," Howard says before Coulson can respond. 

"Sir, I am sure you understand that what I've given you so far is merely a courtesy extended by the steward for your services to the Crown," Coulson tells him without looking up. "Anything else is included in our active investigation and cannot be divulged at this time." Coulson taps at the handheld a few more times and then nods. "I've obtained you a slot to see him. I knew you'd want to." 

Steve frowns. "But you said —" 

"You'll learn to speak Coulson like the rest of us soon enough," Obadiah says breezily. "He has to give his disclaimers before he gives you what you want, you see." 

Coulson's smile is so thin as to be a trick of the light. "If you would come this way, Lord Stark," is all he says. They all start walking again and Steve's hand is on Coulson's arm before he thinks to stop himself. He clears his throat and straightens, instinctive military bearing. 

"Agent Coulson," he says when they hesitate for him. "I was wondering if I could see the crown prince." Steve ignores the way Stane watches him when he says this, and he shares a smirk with Howard. "Not sure my clearance is high enough for this Logan fellow, anyway."

Coulson scoffs. "Neither is his," he says of Howard, and then sighs. "Of course you want to see the prince, Captain. You'll have to be escorted, you understand." 

Steve doesn't, really, but lockdown is always a funny thing. 

"I'll have to get you approved, as well." Which is also a new one, and something Howard looks far from pleased with. "I'll pull some strings, push you through today."

"Hospital protocol?" Howard prompts. 

Coulson types at his tablet. "No," he says, jaw tight, and nothing more.

* * *

He's being summoned. It's refreshing and infuriating at the same time, but Shaw doesn't show he minds. He needs this to happen and if he has to cater to a man's ego to do it, well, it wouldn't be the first time, and it likely wouldn’t be the last. The door to his limo opens and he steps into the feeble daylight, taking his first look at Svartrstane, where the Lehnsherr manor sits high on craggy rocks. Lehnsherr's offices are no place to discuss these things.

It’s an impressive home, considering no major renovations have been done in deference to modernity. It's bleak and a little intimidating, not such a far cry from the Summers estate. 

When the doors open, Shaw is met by a shockingly blue-skinned woman, nude at that. A mutant. He can't stop staring as he moves closer and it's obvious by the woman's amused expression that she's used to it. 

"Lord Shaw," she says. 

"Young lady, you are beautiful," he says truthfully, still unable to look away. "What is your name?" 

"My name is Raven, my lord," she says. 

"You must have difficulty going out in public, Lady Raven," Shaw says as he's escorted farther into the house. There are no sounds of anyone else throughout. "Is it only you and Erik here?"

"It's Miss," she says with the tone noblewomen have often corrected him on the reverse, and he likes her for it. She doesn't answer the other question, leading him along, and he likes that less. In that move alone, she has told him where she considers her loyalties to lie, and has put that at odds with any to himself. He'll have to deal with that later.

"Miss Raven," he obliges. Manners are important, even among the common. "He must trust you." Or dislikes her least of all. Shaw has a feeling that's why Emma stayed with him so long. 

Raven stops and Shaw can't tell if it's to face him, or because they've reached the proper door. "He must trust you, too," she says, like a threat. 

Oh, he wants this one. 

"We've both something to gain, my dear," he says. He thinks about being so bold as to brush her hair from her face, but then decides it would serve little purpose. "I doubt it's anything more than that." 

"No honor amongst thieves." 

He smirks. "Business," he corrects. "Rather than personal. Was all I meant to imply." He's not sure what to make of the fact that she seems to expect a nobler goal. She must live far from the mendacity of court. "You consider us to be stealing." 

"Aren't you?" She shrugs and turns to open the door behind them. "Didn't say that was a bad thing." 

Shaw studies the long line of Miss Raven's back as the heavy, metal doors swing open; it's obvious that she's stronger than she looks. Raven intrigues and entices him, but he doesn't have long to think on it. Lehnsherr is waiting with a studiously bored expression on his face. That tells Shaw that Lehnsherr wants this as much as he does.

"Lord Shaw," Lehnsherr says, and Shaw accepts his offered hand. "No Essex today?" 

"I assure you, we are not connected at the hip," Shaw says, sitting. Raven sits off to the side, her expression giving away nothing. "Did you want to see him again?" 

Lehnsherr shakes his head. "The less I see of him the better, I do believe." Shaw watches Lehnsherr glance at Raven and wonders how far their relationship actually goes. 

"So. You wished to speak with me, Lord Lehnsherr?" 

There is surprise on Erik's face before it's swallowed. "I have given your suggestion some thought. Quite a bit of thought." 

"Good." 

"I think it would be in our best interest to accept your proposal." 

"Our?" Shaw asks, glancing between Raven and Erik. 

"Mutants," Raven clarifies. "We shouldn't have to hide who and what we are. This is our home, too." 

"Ah, yes, of course. Mutantkind would have to be a concern." 

Raven looks pleased with the reply, but Lehnsherr just watches him like a child studying a bug. Shaw wonders if he's contemplating wing-pulling. "Not yours, then, Shaw?" Lehnsherr says. "Are you just an opportunist?" 

"Always, Erik," he says. "A mutant as well. And above all, an enemy of Marko. But if I were only an opportunist, do you really think I would be handing the throne to you instead of seizing it for myself?" 

"Honestly?" Lehnsherr lifts an eyebrow at him like he actually wants an answer. "My abilities and connections aside, I've yet to figure that part out. For now, _why_ is hardly pertinent. But I assure you that the moment it becomes pertinent, you'll be the first to know." 

Another threat. Lehnsherr knows court better than his woman, despises the game, but plays it just fine. It's what makes him infinitely more useful than Stark, who revels in it and has far too much loyalty to the Xaviers. 

"You will be tall, on my shoulders, Erik. No more." And no other way. "I don't think you need to worry." 

"Oh, I don't." And the way he says it, Shaw almost even believes him. "Do you know why, Lord Shaw? You see, I've researched several coups and several kings, and in the end, there's no one who remembers who put them there." 

Shaw's smile is slow. "I don't know," he says, pleasant because he's in a pleasant mood. "I hear Marko's name in the news these days far more than I hear Brian Xavier's." He can feel Raven stiffen in her chair on the other side of the room. "Wouldn't you agree?" Erik doesn't respond and Shaw doesn't expect him to. "I'm glad you've decided to do this."

"Treason?" 

"Quite the opposite, Erik. This is love for our people and our way of life. This is the willingness to fight and die for freedom that will be snatched from us at any day." 

"You're talking about registration," Raven says. 

"My parents," Lehnsherr says, "taught me to try and use the system to affect change. And I have. I have organized mutant rallies. I have taken over Lehnsherr Engineering and crafted it into a rival of Stark Industries. Are you sure we shouldn't try to work _with_ Prince Charles?" 

"He doesn't understand how much is at stake. You've heard Marko – the registration bill they’re sliding through is downplayed as _for the good of society_. As if we exist outside of society. They don't like to listen, Erik. I've been a part of court for the better part of a century. Nothing has changed or will change with these humans. So, we will be the change they need." 

"Shaw," Lehnsherr says. He looks like he might laugh at him, which does annoy a bit. "You are aware that Charles Xavier is not Kurt Marko?" 

Shaw feels his nostrils flare and a surge of anger accompanies it, because he did not authorize his face to make that expression. "A dynasty is a dynasty," he says, satisfied with the statement even though it furrows Lehnsherr's brow. "And a human is a human."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, everyone, new job this week, sucked up some time. Hope this longer-ish chapter makes up for it. :)
> 
> (And I know there was a request for a house list, which would be pretty easy to draw up if that's something you guys are interested in.)


	4. IV

Rhodey's car is a piece of shit.

"Whose idea was this?" Tony blurts, when the scenery ceases to amuse and the cramped two-door makes a particularly ominous rumble on a curve.

"Yours."

"Not this," Tony says. He slips a thumb beneath the shoulder strap of his seat belt and jerks at it. It slinks back and forth. " _This_."

"Once again. Yours."

"Oh, shut up."

"You're paying for the gas, by the way."

"Pull over at the next exit and I'll pay for a new car." 

Travel accounts – other than his father's – probably wouldn't actually cover that, so Tony shuts up. Rhodey doesn't imply interest in the offer, anyway; he's probably proud of this car. Which is fine. There's not much in Tony's life that he's earned.

"You know Hammer Bay is under lockdown, right?" Rhodey says. "You don't have the paperwork for that shit."

"Name opens doors," Tony says, tugging out his phone. "And when that fails, I open back doors." He's already hacked standard security forwards, clearance two. Whatever his father and Summers know, he knows.

Charles is being moved today. Steve is probably moving him.

"That's illegal."

"Highly, yes," Tony agrees without looking up. "Good to be a minor." For a bit longer, anyway. And good to be a Stark, he doesn't say, because he's generally not so sure it is.

Rhodey sighs and Tony thinks it's plain disapproval until after a moment he says, "Is this about Steve?"

Tony blinks at his phone and refuses to look up. "It's about Charles," he says. It is. Charles is a friend, a good friend. And it's Steve too. And Pepper and Obie and his father. Most of the people he cares about locked up in one dangerous place. He'd have left Rhodey behind if he thought he could have escaped the estate without him and his bucket of bolts.

His phone buzzes in his hand, and he can’t even muster surprise. They're about an hour out; Tony's guess when they set out was forty-nine minutes.

" _Sir,_ " is all Jarvis says, before Tony can even get in a hello. He sounds about as displeased as he's capable of sounding.

"I'm with a responsible adult and I was going to call you when I got there."

" _Mister Rhodes is hardly a chaperone,_ " Jarvis says. " _I suggest for your safety and my career, sir, that you turn back._ "

Tony winces, but he knows better. His father wouldn't fire Jarvis any more than he would fire Obie or kick Steve out of the house. Jarvis is family. Jarvis raised him more than anyone else, since his mother's death. Maybe even before, but Tony doesn't really remember before.

"No can do," Tony tells him. "But I'm safe – other than being in a bit of a deathtrap – and when I get there, I'll be sure to stress the me-ness of this plan, as it's been stressed to me." He gives Rhodey a look and receives a sidelong one in return.

" _Sir-_ "

"I can't come home, Jarvis," he says, perfectly serious; Jarvis tends to be the one who gets that sometimes he means what he says. "I need to be there."

" _I understand you feel that you do._ " From anyone else, except _maybe_ Pepper, Tony would hate that tone. " _But you risk creating more danger than you prevent. How do you plan to help them?_ "

"Well, I haven't... really figured that part out yet," Tony admits, and he hears Rhodey snort. "But I will. I can do things." 

He knows these people. Charles will think too much to do, Steve will do too much to think, and his father is brilliant in a reckless, but rarely outside-the-box kind of way. If Tony's there, he can call them on their bullshit in a way that Pepper shouldn't and Obie won't. He's afraid his father will fire everyone, he's afraid Charles will die.

He's afraid Steve will come home married or not at all.

He hears Jarvis sigh. " _I am sending Mister Hogan along after you,_ " he says, and Tony thinks he means to bring him home, and yeah, any of the Stark cars can outrun this one, that's for sure. But then Jarvis adds, " _And you will call me the moment you arrive in Hammer Bay. I define 'arrival' as your father or the captain standing directly beside you. And I am timing you. Do you understand?_ "

Tony grins, broadly enough that it clearly makes Rhodey nervous. "Yes, sir," he says. He doesn't thank him. Jarvis knows.

* * *

"Agent Barton," he introduces himself as. The tone is friendly enough, but no friendly gestures like a handshake, or even a smile, accompany it. The man seems totally unfazed about standing in the quarters of a stranger when said stranger has clearly just emerged from the shower. Steve pulls his shirt over his head and glances around the living area, unsure. Barton's fingers twitch at his sides and Steve couldn't say why. 

"Coulson said you needed an escort to the hospital. Told me to get my ass over here."

"Oh," Steve says. "Yes. Thank you. Were... those his words?" 

"Pretty much. I paraphrase." Barton glances down. "You got shoes somewhere?" 

Steve clears his throat and goes to the door to retrieve the boots he arrived in. "I have an appointment?" 

"You won't need one with us. Coulson says you know Summers?" 

"I—? Yes. I served with Scott Summers." 

"I meant his brother, Alex. I work for him." 

"Oh, I see." 

"Summers has arranged for your meeting with the crown prince. After you." Barton opens the door to Steve's suite and he hurries through it, oddly wrong-footed. They slide into a nondescript car that screams security.

The hospital is only about ten minutes from the palace and they pull up to a back exit. Steve climbs out of the car, well aware of Barton's gaze on him. Even from outside, the hospital smells like disinfectant, which he long ago learned to associate with death.

The hospital doors slide open, and out steps a man that has to be Alex Summers; the cut of his jaw and the seriousness of his expression remind Steve so much of Scott Summers that he almost calls him by that name. 

"Summers?" he says, to be safe, extending a hand. 

"Captain," Summers says, only his isn't a question. "I'm glad you're here." Steve shakes his hand hesitantly; it's an odd choice of words. "This way. I've told the prince you're coming."

It's Summers' clearance, not Steve's, that gets the three of them through the checkpoints at the door, the elevator, and the ward Charles is housed in. There's only one guard posted outside Charles' door and he smirks at their approach. 

"Yo, boss," he says to Summers, and then eyes Steve up and down. "New recruit?" 

"No," Summers scoffs. "This is Captain Steve Rogers." 

"Ah, of course. The prince's one true love." He grins at Steve like that's a joke, and of course it is – this man must know theirs is an arranged marriage – but that only makes Steve want to punch him in the face, and he comes close. It might be a joke, but it's far from a funny one. 

"Shut it, Wilson," Barton says. "Open the door." 

"Yessir!" Wade barks, and he opens the door with unnecessary flourish. 

Steve steps in behind Summers, who hesitates; there's someone beside Charles' bed, and from the look on Summers' face, he wasn't expecting her. 

"Lady Munroe,” he says, “how did you get in here?" 

"I'm pretty sure I used the door," the girl says dryly. Charles chuckles, and it takes quite a bit for Steve not to flinch in sympathy. There are blotches and mottled bruises along Charles' neck that look as if they haven't decided to heal yet. His left arm is broken and lies beside him on the bed. His left leg is also in a cast and in traction. Steve wants to bundle Charles up and away, put him high on a shelf so nothing like this can happen again. 

"Ororo came to keep me company," Charles says. "You know how it is; a few days away from the palace, you miss all the goings-on at court." 

"Nothing interesting," Summers says. "But you know that." And he jerks his thumb toward Steve. "Look who we found." 

"Hello, Steve." Charles' voice has gone soft and a little strange, and Steve doesn't know where to put his hands so he settles for clasping them over his waist. 

Lady Munroe clears her throat politely and Steve realizes he's come forward but hasn't said anything. "I guess I should go," she says as she pats Charles' uninjured wrist. 

Charles smiles at her. There's a particularly spectacular scrape along his jaw. "Thank you for visiting, Ororo. Do tell mother I hope to see her tonight." 

"Absolutely, Your Highness." Ororo curtsies prefunctorily and quits the room, taking Summers and Barton with her and leaving Charles and Steve alone in the room. The only sound between them is the clinical beep of Charles' heart monitor.

"I'm glad to see you alive and in good spirits, Prince Charles," Steve says. 

"We're back to _Prince Charles_ , now?" Charles asks with a laugh. "Would you please sit down? I can't stand to have you looming at me. I can literally see you worrying." 

"What do you expect? You look like you're in pain. Are you?" Steve catches himself on his way down to the chair that the girl vacated, hovering. "Do you want me to get the nurse?" 

"No, they have this marvelous invention that allows me to push a button for the medicine. It's so marvelous, I might have you take that magic button away from me." 

Steve snorts a laugh before he can wonder if it's appropriate, and by Charles' smirk, that was his goal. Steve sits down, hands dangling between his knees. "So, you're feeling all right, then?" 

Charles settles into his pillows and sighs. "As long as I have the meds. And without, I'm told I'm far better than I was. I'll be fine. A few scars are probably good for me." 

Steve feels his jaw clench. "Not this kind." These are no war wounds, expected and earned. 

"I'm fine," Charles says. "Though I wager that won't stop Lord Stark firing half my security?" 

It's another tease, so Steve smiles for him. "Those would be optimistic numbers." 

"I'm sorry he had to come all this way." And Charles doesn't say he's sorry Steve had to; they both know he'll be living here soon enough. He belongs here now.

"So's he." As soon as it's out of his mouth, Steve wonders if Charles will take that too seriously, but he seems to understand. He laughs, at least. "You know Howard." 

"Yes," Charles says. "Tony's the same. No patience for those who can't keep up. I do hope Howard's not too hard on them." 

Steve misses Tony fiercely then, a brief flare, and then it's banked, manageable again. He shifts in his seat, watching the IV drip while Charles watches him. 

"You didn't bring him," Charles says, not even asking, and when Steve looks, Charles blinks like he's said something he didn't quite mean to; Steve doesn't really understand why. Charles clears his throat. "Tony." 

Steve shakes his head. "No, of course not. Never when I can help it." 

Charles smiles a thin smile; perhaps his pain's returning. "Of course. Shame, I could use all the entertainment I can get." 

"I think you've had enough excitement for a while." 

"I'm sure you're right, but I've never been one to know my limits. Although, I must say this is one way to learn them." Charles' mask slips a little and Steve can see a bit of the fear he's sure the prince is tucking deep inside, away from the pokes and prods of doctors. Steve knows that most people don't want to open up to a person in a lab coat. They're not there to judge, true enough, but they don't really seem there to listen either. 

"Do you remember the accident?" 

Charles stares at his hands. "What's the right answer?"

Steve frowns. "Whatever is the truth."

"No, I don't remember," he says, and Steve can't make Charles meet his eyes. He wonders why Charles would lie about something like that. He wants to press, see what’s wrong, but the prince looks pale around the edges and Steve can't bring himself to cause him any more hurt. 

"It may come back to you," Steve says instead. "In flashes," he adds. What Steve doesn't add is that the memories will make themselves known while awake or asleep, that the smallest thing can trigger them. He wonders if someone's told Charles this, and if he's prepared. 

In all honesty, no one's prepared. 

"Looking forward to that," Charles murmurs, but he's looking back at Steve now. "What news have you brought me?" 

"News?" Steve blinks. "I didn't bring any news..." 

"You're here to entertain, aren't you?" Charles' expression is openly teasing, and the tense line in Steve's shoulders relaxes as he smirks back. 

"I forgot my position, Your Highness," he says, giving a seated, flourishing bow. 

Charles raises an eyebrow imperiously before his face collapses into a pained smile. "Ow, that hurts," he says. "I'll forget there's anything wrong with my face unless someone is staring and reminds me. You don't stare."

Steve wants to say he's seen worse, but it doesn't feel like the right time or place. "Howard is working on a new defense system," Steve says. "I could give you information on that, if you want." 

"Shop talk," Charles says dismissively. "What did you do today?" 

Steve smiles and ducks his head. "Well, I spent most of the day waiting around to come see you." 

"You did?" Charles looks away again. "Not the whole day, surely." 

"Well, no," Steve relents. "I was angry that we were delayed. We weren't given any sort of information on your status or the nature of your injuries. I don't claim to have the best imagination, but I couldn't help but think of truly horrific things on the way here." 

"Security." Charles rolls his eyes. "Although, the man at my door is a strange one. I've woken up sure that he was standing over my bed, watching me sleep." 

Steve looks over at the door to find Wilson's face pressed against the small plate glass square, watching the two of them. Charles makes a shooing motion and Wilson slides slowly out of sight, without changing his blank expression. 

"If you want, I can get another man posted at your door," Steve says, wondering what exactly is wrong with Wilson. 

"Oh, don't you dare. Without him, I would've succumbed to pure boredom." Charles attempts to shift around to get more comfortable, but Steve can see by the way Charles moves that he's in a lot of pain. 

"Here, let me." Steve lifts him gently and resettles Charles, mindful of his arm and leg. He pauses a moment with Charles in his arms, and makes himself let go. It doesn't matter how they ended up where they are, Steve doesn't like to see Charles hurting.

"Thank you," Charles says, and Steve clears his throat and backs away again. It's an odd situation; Charles is only a few years older than Tony and Steve has known him nearly as long. Engaged or not, even sitting too closely still feels a little inappropriate. "I really am glad you're here, though. Things are... unsettling, right now."

Steve reaches for Charles hand, because that's something he always would have done. "You've had a shock."

"No, it's – well, yes. But I've..." Charles stares down at their joined hands with a frown. "I've had many illusions shattered when it comes to my family. My father's death was... but then there was Kurt to take his place, however horrible he might have been to me. And I've simply never had to doubt my place in the world... quite like this."

"Charles," Steve says, squeezing. "This wasn't about you."

"We don't know that."

"We do. Marko's approval rating has been steadily dropping, and Coulson tells me he was meant to be in the car with you that morning."

"Even if they were after him, they didn't care to strike at us. And I know I have support, I do. It just all feels so much more unstable than I realized. That I would be king was always granted." Charles sighs like he's gathering himself and tugs his hand free, not unkindly. "Don't pay any attention to me; I've just had to grow up a little. Ororo's got me thinking too much."

"Ororo?"

"She's my mother's favorite, you see, an old friend. She worries. All this talk of if there can be one threat, there can be another, and how when the people get it in their h-"

"I don't think she should be upsetting you with this right now."

"It was my own fault. I was telling her how I felt about all this and she just wants to make sure I know that we all need to be cautious."

"All the same," Steve says. "You should just worry about resting up for now." I can worry about the rest, Steve doesn't tell him, because Charles would protest. He makes a note to speak to Howard about any and all threats before security considers lifting the lockdown. "You'll be home tomorrow and things will seem better then. More stable."

Charles smiles at him like he knows Steve doesn't quite believe that, but neither of them question it aloud.

* * *

"Right this way, sir." Coulson pauses outside the door. "I don't know how long you'll have," he says neutrally.

Howard understands. "If anyone asks, I'll tell them I insisted."

Coulson's smile is almost nonexistent. "You'll let me know if you need anything."

Howard nods and steps inside. The room is painted a bland beige and houses an examination table and two chairs. Judging from the smell, it's been scrubbed clean of anything identifiable.

"I see they gave you the deluxe accommodations," Howard says, zeroing in on a wild-looking man slouched in one of the chairs. He slips his hands into his pockets and stares shamelessly. "I'm Howard Stark."

"I know who you are." A thick cigar is pinched in the side of the man's jaw. He says nothing more, nor does he shift his posture. Howard can't help but smirk. 

"So we have you to thank for saving the royal family," Howard says as he takes the empty seat.

"I was just there; anyone else would've done the same."

Howard snorts. He knows that neither of them thinks that's true. "I guess if they couldn't get hurt, yeah, maybe," he says. Howard produces his phone and takes his time tapping at it, enlarging the files Phil gave him and a few he didn't. "James Logan: known mutant; incarcerated seven months ago, voluntary manslaughter."

James Logan blinks slowly as he chews on the cigar. "So you know all about me, huh?"

"I doubt that, but give me time," Howard assures him. "Why did you do it, James?"

"Call me Logan," he says. "Got a light?"

Howard regards him for a moment before producing a lighter from his pocket. The Stark family crest is etched on the side. Logan glances at that before he accepts it. He lights his cigar and then pockets the lighter with a grin. Howard tries not to like him even more. 

"So, Logan, why did you do it?"

Logan shrugs. "Why not? I could hear the screams." He says it nonchalantly, but Howard can see the tense cord of muscle in Logan's neck. He's more affected than he lets on. 

"Is that part of your abilities?"

"What are you, some sort of mutant fetishist?" Logan asks. "I've been propositioned by most of them. They get off on watching me do this." He raises his fists and wickedly gleaming, foot-long blades slide from the skin between his knuckles. Howard sits back before he can stop himself. 

"Holy shit," he says. He laughs, a little giddy.

Logan looks pleased, retracting the blades as if they never were. Howard wonders if it hurts. "Nice language for a noble."

Howard's expression turns bland at the word. "Do you know how to use those?" he asks, and it's Logan's turn to look baleful. Howard doesn't press it. "Why were you in jail?" 

"You have all my information there. I'm sure it tells you why," Logan says after he takes a particularly long drag. The smoke smells awful; Howard almost wants to buy the man a better grade. 

"You killed a man, obviously. Doesn't tell me why," Howard says. 

"He was gonna rape a little girl. I decided to make an example out of him after he pulled a gun on me."

Howard swallows. "You tell the judge that?"

"He stopped listening after he found out the girl had wings," Logan says.

Howard sits there, unsure what to say to that. To be perfectly honest, mutants were never really his domain. He doesn't know too many personally. Steve is probably the closest to home this new registration bill will hit. And everyone knows who he is already, Howard's told him more than once when the legislation occasionally comes up, which never fails to piss Steve off. The first time, he simply stared at Howard without replying and then didn't speak to him for two days.

But this.

Logan's eyes track his throat when he swallows. "Something different about it when it's a kid, isn't there?" he says, but Howard doesn't think he's really playing with him. "Almost makes you wanna treat her like a human." He sits back and grins when Howard glares at him. "Got kids?"

Howard hums assent.

"No mutants, though."

"Not a mutant," Howard scoffs. "A handful." Some days, he would have preferred something as straightforward as a mutant.

Logan huffs a laugh. "Yeah, well," he says, "maybe you can understand a little where I was coming from, then."

Howard wonders if Logan has children, maybe a daughter. He can't picture it.

"Got a hero complex, do we?"

"Nope," Logan says. "Just cursed with common decency, I guess."

"What a bother that must be."

"Not as much as it must be for you. Practically singlehandedly funding and supplying Marko's wars."

Howard stiffens, opens his mouth to begin a practiced spiel on the consequences of the alternative, but he pauses. This Logan just implied that Howard still has decency. Interesting. Some days, Howard himself even wonders.

"It's not about mutants," he says. "It's about order." It's about holding out until there's an Xavier back on the throne. About protecting the people, human or otherwise, who didn't ask for a war, even if one should be fought.

Logan shrugs, like it hardly matters to him, which Howard highly doubts. "Tell me," he says, elbows on his knees, "you really buy into all of Marko's shit?"

And that's too far. Not because Howard would mind assuring Logan he doesn't, but because he's worked years to remain as trusted by the Crown as he is. Sedition won't pass his lips for this man.

There's a beep from the door, and Howard glances over his shoulder to see the guard's face hovering. He waves an invitation at him and the keypad flashes green, swinging the door open.

"Captain Rogers is outside, my lord," the guard says. "He'd like to speak with you."

Howard sighs. He's not finished, here. And God knows what condition Charles is in, if Steve felt the need to find Howard again now instead of waiting until the evening. "Send him in," he says, and is answered with a nod.

When he looks back, there's a strange expression on Logan's face. "Captain Steve Rogers?" he asks, because that's just Howard's luck, that this man would be a fan. Howard doesn't bother to answer.

"Hey," Steve says when he enters. "Sorry to interrupt. I need to talk to you and Summers, as soon as you're free."

Howard nods. Security issues, then. Steve's probably dissatisfied with whoever is posted outside Charles' door right now. Probably wants to carry him back to the palace, himself. "Fine," he says. "Steve, this is –"

"Logan," Steve says, before he can finish, and Logan is standing, which should frighten Howard, because the man is dangerous and hasn't been authorized to get in his space. But he’s still cuffed and Steve's right there, and mutant or not, Howard would almost like to see Logan try. He tenses, ready for a scuffle and confused.

"Hey, Cap," Logan says, and what Howard was sure would be a rush is instead an awkward, one-armed hug. "Long time no see."

"That's –" Steve glances between the two of them. "What're you – _you're_ the hero?"

"Well, don't sound so shocked."

"That's not what I — what's this John Logan business? They said you were a cage fighter and a convict, and that they couldn't –"

"What the hell is going on, here?" Howard shouts, because it seems he's not going to get an explanation without demanding one.

Steve shakes his head. "This man's not a convict," he says.

"Cap –"

"He's a war hero." And Steve shrugs Logan off when he looks like he might attempt to physically stop him, cuffs or no. "And a Howlett-Creed."

Howard blinks in the silence. This man, this gruff, uncouth and uncaring man, can't be any of those things. But Steve doesn't lie. A Howlett-Creed. This Logan has the bluest blood in the room.

Second only to the Xaviers.

* * *

“This is… impressive. Far more than what I was anticipating at this stage, frankly.” Shaw doesn’t hold back any of the awe he feels as he looks at the plans for the new energy weaponry Lehnsherr designed. Their army would have two-fold weaponry, unlike their human enemy. These are only standard-issue designs. Lehnsherr claims to still be working on weaponry suited to specific evolutionary abilities.

Let Stark try. 

“I don’t play around with people’s lives. Especially not mutant lives,” Lehnsherr says. He extends a hand and the metal edges of the blueprints collapse toward one another and seal without a seam. “If we’re going to do this, I don’t want to leave anything to chance.”

“Chance is for the uninspired and the unprepared,” Shaw says. He moves away from the table and gestures toward his favorite sitting area, beneath the gorgeous cathedral ceiling he designed himself. “Please join me. The staff has put out a spread worthy of a king.”

Lehnsherr snorts softly as he follows Shaw. “I guess they should get ready,” he says neutrally.

Shaw regards Lehnsherr as a servant steps forward to plate their choices. He waits until he has finished and then waves them all away until he and Lehnsherr are alone again. “You don’t like the idea of power, do you?” It’s not a reaction Shaw understands, but it is one he’s familiar enough with in other people.

“I have no problem with power,” Lehnsherr says. “I have a problem with the public face I’ll have to wear.”

“We all have faces we must wear, my boy. We do this for the betterment of our brothers and sisters. The strong will step forward and pave the way for the children and the infirm —”

“You’re preaching to the choir,” Lehnsherr interrupts. “I’ve already agreed. It’s just a lot to wrap my mind around. I prefer to think about logistics rather than politics.”

“What do you think politics is, but social logistics?” Shaw asks. “You’ll have plenty of people available to help you run the country, but one step at a time. Your weaponry will be for naught if we don’t have a strategy in place to make it effective. I’ve been told you’re fond of shrewd strategy.” 

“Measure twice, cut once,” Lehnsherr agrees absently. “Our attacks would need to be practically simultaneous to ensure the most effective outcome.”

“What would you say our first targets should be?” Shaw asks. Lehnsherr’s no general. Shaw is curious.

“The palace, of course. Secure the previous royal family.” Lehnsherr sits back in his chair and stares off into the middle distance. “Parliament would need to be secured. All federal buildings in the capital. We cut off transportation, ground all planes, dock all ships. Hammer Bay is currently under lockdown, which should help that. Cell towers will need to be in our control so we can monitor and cripple communication as necessary. The noble families will need to be felt out as well, put out of commission and then offered amnesty for loyalty. I know there are a few mutant families who publically support the Crown. They could be trouble.”

“I am sure once they see the line drawn in the sand, they’ll choose to side with their own.” Shaw regards Lehnsherr for a moment. “It sounds as if you’ve thought about this before,” he says.

“When my parents died, there was a lot I was prepared to do,” Lehnsherr says. “I wanted to bring the world down around me and I didn’t care who I hurt to do it.”

“Then why didn’t you?” Shaw asks, intrigued.

“Because my mother would’ve been disappointed,” Lehnsherr says as if that’s a reason. “She would’ve said I was no better than the people who killed her.”

“But now?”

“But now, this is the will of the people,” Erik says. “I’m one of the people.”

Shaw grins and raises his chilled goblet. “Then, to the people.”

* * *

"That smells absolutely atrocious," Meredith Allerdyce spits, turning from the serving platter and waving the servant away. “When will this pass?"

"The stronger the illness, the stronger the child," Felicia tells her daughter. She accepts one of the lemon tarts, which in reality, smell delicious. "Have you been able to keep anything down?" she asks, turning to the flat screen television mounted on the wall. The news is on and Felicia turns it low; recaps of the bombing and the subsequent interviews. No new news.

"No, and frankly I don't really have much of an appetite." Meredith grabs a cracker from the plate and bites into it petulantly. While her mother is in the room, there's no chance of turning the channel. Her mother's gaze is fixed on the capital right now, and if she can't be there, she'll make everyone suffer. 

"Don't think about how much of a burden this is. Think about your duty to your family."

"I can't even have a cigarette," Meredith mourns. She doesn't bother to rise to her mother's words; duty to house and family was drilled into the Allerdyce children from birth. She doesn't have to be reminded while she's fighting to keep a Saltine from coming back up. 

"If I hear you've been indulging in that filthy habit —"

"I haven't, mother," Meredith cuts her off. "Drop it, I have a headache."

Felicia purses her lips, but moves on. "I read Doctor Essex's report. The child seems to be progressing well." Meredith hums impassively and with a sigh, Felicia reaches to turn up the television.

“ _—thanked Logan for his courage in the face of danger._ " Footage of a rough-looking man shaking hands with a wheelchair-bound Prince Cain. Flashbulbs burst behind television cameras. “ _Sources claim that Logan's mutation allowed him to save the royal family without endangering his own life._ ”

"So much going on,” Felicia says. “The upset can only work in our favor, but the reveal will need to be strategic. We’ll only get to do this once and we need to do it right for maximum effect."

"Nothing says maximum effect like yelling _rape_ , right?" Meredith asks.

"Are we going to have a problem?" Felicia says. "Need I remind you this was your idea?"

"Maybe if someone had told me what all pregnancy entailed, I wouldn't have done it," Meredith says sourly.

"You won't be complaining when you're Lady Howlett-Creed, will you?" Felicia asks. "Then you'll be out of my hair and your husband's responsibility. That almost makes me feel mildly sorry for Victor."

Meredith's jaw works as she struggles to keep her words in her mouth. "When are we going to do this?"

"Creed is due back in Genosha by the end of the week, when lockdown is lifted. Once he returns, we'll hold a press conference. I'm sure then he'll clear his schedule to see us."

Meredith's fingers flex with the desire to pull out a cigarette and light it. She nibbles at her cracker instead.

* * *

Hank scratches himself and realizes he's using his foot and he's upside down.

Again.

Thankful he's at least back in his office, he jumps and lands upright, glancing at the television. He's tiring of seeing Alison Blaire, especially the cut of the footage of Logan with Cain. He bares his teeth silently at the wannabe prince but when the camera moves over Logan's face, Hank remembers again what the mutant did for Charles. 

Logan's blood didn't look special when it flowed out rich and dark red. When they set up the drip into Prince Charles though, the changes began almost instantaneously. The pained, pinched expression on Charles' face that triggered Hank's sympathetic headache disappeared almost immediately and the raw abrasion over Charles' eye faded, rose to peach to pale, unblemished and whole skin. 

Charles cried out and Hank could hear bones in Charles' chest cavity snap together as he struggled to breathe. Charles began to claw at his cast and Hank bounded over and offered his claw; the plaster sliced away and Charles' arm was revealed in time to see the muscle bruising – visible even through Charles' skin – vanish. The bone beneath the skin straightened. Hank turned to look at Logan in shock, receiving only a grim expression. 

"My God," Charles breathed. His voice was strong and clear and he sat up with amazement on his face as he moved each of his limbs gingerly. Hank touched gently but prodded thoroughly. "Do you feel this way every time you heal?" Charles asked Logan after he moved his head back and forth and followed the penlight flashed in his eyes.

Logan shrugged. "I forgot it hurts; I'm used to it," was all he said around the cigar they had retrieved for him.

Hank stares at the chart in his hands. As a doctor and a mutant, he knows of the existence of healers who could do what Logan's blood did. They tend to remain in seclusion out of personal safety. It wouldn't do for the royal family to have one around, for Kurt Marko to take advantage of. To use against mutants, to keep the throne.

Hank adjusts his glasses, pulls a pen from his pocket and fills out the discharge form for the royal prince. He already reapplied the casts to Charles' arm and leg and retaped fully-formed ribs. Charles promised to remain injured as gracefully as he could to the public and to his own family; it was the only thing one could do to avoid questions. 

Hank can only imagine what would happen if it were found out what Logan can do.

* * *

Much to Howard's apprehension – and, oddly enough, Logan's – Steve was able to convince both Howard and Alex Summers that Logan did not belong in his cell. Neither entirely knew what to make of it, but Logan was permitted to accompany them back to their quarters in the south wing of the palace, so long as, Summers insisted, he remained in his cuffs and Steve himself took responsibility for escorting and supervising him.

Now Logan sits on their sofa, looking dreadfully out of place and watching the three of them plus Coulson and Stane arguing, like there's something amusing here.

"With all due respect, Captain," Summers says, "you are not prince consort yet. Prince Charles is my responsibility."

"I don't think Steve's arguing the legalities, here," Howard says. "But even if he is, whether or not he has the right to insist is hardly relevant, because I certainly do. I don't want Charles moved until all current personnel have been looked into. The hospital is too far from the palace for anything but another caravan."

"And I want to review all threats that have been made on the Crown in the past month, at minimum," Steve says, arms crossed over his chest, because he knows that stance makes even Tony listen to him.

"Security is far tighter at the palace than the hospital," Summers tells him.

"I gotta say," Logan speaks up. The television is bright over Steve's shoulder, muted, and Logan watches coverage of his own face with a sneer. "If I know Rogers – and I do – any bad feeling he's got, you probably wanna listen to. And just out of curiosity, who's watching the kid now?"

It's said ironically, as if none of them are likely to know, but Coulson, ever efficient, says, "Hill. I trust her implicitly."

"And who the fuck are you supposed to be? Marko's lapdog?"

"Logan," Steve snaps, clear warning. Casting someone in Marko's employ as against them isn't even close to safe with that employee in the room.

"Everyone, shut up," Obadiah says, expression odd. Steve doesn't quite know what to make of it. He glances over his shoulder, where Obadiah is frowning at the news in a completely different way than Logan. "Turn that up."

* * *

"No, no, Nathan. Don't pull on Daddy's glasses." Scott manages to keep the panic out of his voice as he pries his son's hand from beneath his visor. "We don't touch Daddy's glasses," he says for good measure.

Nathan looks up at him with a slobbery smile and reaches for the glasses again. 

"Nathan," Jean admonishes as she approaches behind Scott. "What did Daddy say?"

Nathan's bottom lip wobbles and Scott bounced him gently. "Don't cry, little man. Just don't touch Daddy's glasses," he croons. Nathan lays his head on Scott's chest and rubs his forehead back and forth. "When did he wake up?" he asks Jean.

Jean rubs the soft blond hair on Nathan's head and rests her own against Scott's broad shoulder. "He woke me up at five this morning. He hasn't been down for his nap yet but it feels like he's heading to sleep right now. Yep, there he goes," she says fondly.

Scott looks down at his son to find she’s right. "You guys have been on the road since this morning?" he asks quietly as he maneuvers Nathan into his crib. 

"Yes, and I'm glad to not be in a car anymore," Jean says, allowing Scott to pull her into his arms. His hands drift down her back comfortingly before they move to the front and settle on the swell of her stomach. 

"Still can't tell if it's a boy or girl?" Scott murmurs in Jean's ear as they begin to sway.

"No. Gender isn't as set as you would think, especially in the womb," Jean says. She restrains a yawn. "I know you're trying to put me to sleep, too, so I won't worry." She pulls back to find her reflection in Scott's glasses. "I'm still going to worry. Do you want me to come with you?" She gestures toward her temple vaguely. 

Scott shakes his head. "I wouldn't want you to get caught up in anything and experience mental backlash. I wouldn't know what to do if anything happened to you or our currently genderless child," he jokes. 

"Like I would be okay without you," Jean says. "I —"

"I don't want to have this discussion again," Scott says. "I know you've been listening; what have you picked up?"

Jean shrugs one shoulder. "Mostly chatter about their everyday lives. Non-psis always assume we _want_ to listen in. It's really quite boring. A lot of people are thinking about the Crown."

"What are they thinking?" 

Jean looks uncomfortable. "Quite a few are ready for change," she admits. 

"But Charles _will_ be change, we just have to get him to the throne.”

"You don't have to tell me," Jean says. She kisses Scott calm with quick pecks to his lips. "But they don't know Charles like we do. They're scared he's going to be Marko with the gloves off. They're wondering if their lives will go on the same way."

"They will," Scott says.

"And then there are others who dread that," Jean says.

Scott's shoulders sag. "Yes, I know.”

"Why don't you stay one more night?" Jean asks. "You don't necessarily have to be in the capital right now. Parliament hasn't been called —" 

Jean’s grip on Scott's forearms tighten. She shudders under his hands and her knees weaken, causing Scott to stumble with her. 

"Jean!” he calls, easing them both onto the reclining chaise. “What’s wrong?” Nathan wakes and squeals shrilly. “What's wrong?”

* * *

Her mother is out of the room by the time Meredith Allerdyce sees the television change from days-old coverage. Discussion of the damage reconstruction becomes breaking news.

* * *

It's a loud sound, even on the television. It blows the shocked reporter's hair from behind and Hank McCoy nearly chokes on his coffee.

* * *

The explosion has already happened by the time Steve finds the television's mute button, and pressing it releases the sound of screams and the stuttered words of the recovering newscaster. The others all crowd at his back, and next to him, he feels Howard shiver.

* * *

Tony's ID actually gets them safely inside the city walls. It might or might not have had something to do with him switching his name from yellow to green on the lockdown list when they were two hours out. The guard at the east gate seems to recognize him anyway, and Rhodey, while he gets carded as well, is waved through based on his spotless record and Tony's insistence that he's his bodyguard.

"I wouldn't take that job for double Hogan's salary," Rhodey says when they're crawling through the crowded streets. The car's rumbling is more pronounced when the brake is being ridden.

"Aw, you'd do it for free. You know you love me."

"Less after a road trip with you." 

Rhodey turns right. The third building on the street is the hospital. Tony wonders if Charles is home yet. Likely not; Tony hasn't seen text confirmation of it. He glances at his phone to make sure. The car stops again and Tony rolls his eyes; the shaking makes the touchscreen difficult to read.

"Damn news crews," Rhodey says of the traffic. "The story's over."

Tony hums agreement.

"You know your father's going to kill you. Steve's going to kill you."

"Don't be ridiculous," Tony says, tapping. "They expect this of me. They'll kill _you_."

Rhodey looks over his shoulder, but more cars have pulled in behind him. "Fuck that, I'm dumping you on Pepper. If I can even get back out of —"

The car shudders. 

The windows crack. 

And the air roars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait, everyone, the holidays and work are distracting. Happy New Year. :)


	5. V

The room is so quiet, the breaking waves can be heard out the open window.

“Summers,” Steve says, low and almost dangerous. “Call the hospital now, get a status update. I want McCoy and two more guards outside the prince’s door. Known loyalists.” He turns and meets Alex’s eyes, aware and uncaring of Coulson over his shoulder. “Xavier loyalists.”

Summers doesn’t argue this time, which Steve greatly appreciates. He knew he liked him. Alex just nods and leaves the room, phone already in hand.

And then Howard’s phone rings. The music is far too light for the tense mood.

Howard flicks it on without even looking at the screen. “What,” he snaps, eyes on the television. Steve registers the shift in the air before he sees Howard's abrupt change in posture. "Tony is what?" His voice is deadly calm. 

Steve's heart begins to beat wildly in his chest and he's suddenly dizzy with the possibilities of what Tony could've gotten himself into. There’s too much to deal with here, for this right now.

"And who told him he could make that trip?" Howard demands, beginning to pace. "I pay you to do better, Jarvis.” 

Steve winces at the steel in Howard's tone; if Tony puts his mind to something, there isn't much that anyone – Howard included – can do about it. "Howard," he says. Howard shrugs his shoulder sharply when Steve lands a hand on it. 

"We _will_ talk about this later," Howard hisses and ends the call. 

"What's wrong?" Steve asks after he's tired of watching Howard's jaw work with barely suppressed rage. "What's happened with Tony? Is he all right?"

"We don't know," Howard says. "He took off with James and decided to head to the capital. Jarvis has lost contact."

“He’s out _there_?” Obadiah says. Steve doesn’t really hear him. He gets a vague impression, sees his finger pointing at the window that faces the wrong direction.

The fear is a funny thing. It’s been a long time since Steve has been this close to it. He didn’t forget how sounds dim, how his vision tunnels, how things slow down. But he realizes now, he forgot how it _felt_. The way everything that’s supposed to prepare you initially cripples you.

And he’s not on a battlefield. He’s standing in palace quarters with a state-of-the-art security system and an ocean view. There’s nothing to do with it, this feeling.

Howard is pacing and cursing. Steve remains very still or he might throw something.

“When did Jarvis speak to him last?” he asks.

“A few hours ago. He should have arrived here not too long ago. And he’s not answering his phone.”

At that, they all seem to realize that only Jarvis has told them this, and three phones emerge from pockets. Steve has no missed calls, not that he heard his cell ring. They let Howard be the one to dial.

“Voicemail,” he tells them, after entirely too short a moment. “Tony?” he barks into it. “There are no words for the trouble you’re in. Call me as soon as you get this – I mean it. We need to know you arrived safely.”

Steve exhales carefully through his nostrils. Then he heads for the door.

“Where’re you goin’?” Logan is the first to ask.

“Out there,” Steve says, heedless of the fact that he’s leaving others to supervise Logan, despite his promise to Summers. He has no idea what he’ll find or find out or if he’ll wind up helping or hindering, but he can’t stay here. Howard doesn’t follow, but that’s trust, not apathy, Steve’s fine with it.

If Tony’s dead, he’s going to kill him.

* * *

"I’m fine now, Scott, really," Jean says. She sips carefully on some orange juice; she's been relegated to the chaise lounge until further notice. "You don't have to hover."

"You almost fainted." Scott is pacing back and forth, holding Nathan. He’s settled enough to go back to sleep, though, an afterthought in Scott’s arms so long as he’s still. 

"I need to get better control. I didn't mean to wake him," Jean says. "It was just so loud."

Scott tries not to tighten his grip on Nathan. He sets him down in the crib before his nerves can rouse him again. "Are you getting anything else? Don't strain yourself," he's quick to add.

Jean shakes her head. "They're calling for local telekinetics, anyone who can help." Jean's eyes stare into the middle distance. That used to disturb Scott. "It's still so chaotic... I think a building came down." Her eyes focus and flick to him. "They're about to call you in," she says.

Scott’s phone rings, but it’s been years since his Jean’s abilities have surprised him. "Yes,” he says into it, and then, “On my way." Then he just listens. His thinks his expression must give him away, because Jean winces.

"They want me to come help," she says then. It's not a question, and Scott is furious. 

"You will do no such thing, not in your condition," Scott says. "Where do they get off asking?" Scott squeezes his phone until he can hear a faint cracking.

Jean wraps her hand around his wrist, eases the phone away and replaces it with her hand. "Scott, they’re doing their job," she says soothingly. She’s on the call-in list, the same as him. Had the last explosion not been so localized, they would already be there. That they’re asking for telekinetics at all… Jean can only imagine the damage.

"Stop being logical about this," Scott says. "That's my job. Your job is to –"

"If you say be pregnant and wait for you to come back, I will punch you across this room; don't think I can't," Jean says. She kisses his hand and moves to her feet. "I promise I won't strain. I won’t put myself or this child in danger.” She studies his face. “All right?"

Scott doesn't trust himself to answer but he pulls Jean closer and inhales deeply the scent of her hair. "As soon as you get tired, you tell them in no uncertain terms that you're going home."

"I promise I will. I have to tell my parents before Azazel comes for us.” She bites her lip, hesitantly stretches her thoughts out again before she can think not to. “It must be bad if they're not even waiting for transportation."

"I'll come down with you," Scott says but Jean shakes her head. 

"Probably shouldn't," she says gently, and he knows she's right. "Nathan will sleep for the next couple of hours. I put him lightly under, so he'll rest. I don't relish the thought but —"

"He'll be a handful for your parents with us gone," Scott finishes. "It's fine." He kisses Jean quickly. "Go, before I leave without you.” Jean squeezes his hand and leaves the room. Scott moves to watch Nathan sleep. When his phone rings again, it's Alex. "Yeah," he says quietly, without waiting for his brother to say anything. "We're on our way."

* * *

"You didn't have anything to do with this, did you?" Erik demands as he stares at the television screen. People running around, screaming. Some on the ground, unnaturally still. Chaos everywhere, and even though Erik had prepared himself for war... This isn’t war. 

Shaw glances to him, then back at the carnage. "I can’t claim credit. You know my plans."

"Do we know if mutants were hurt in this thing?"

"Collateral damage,” is all Shaw says. They're both riveted to the screen. The newscaster is clearly trying to control herself, but her words are still stuttered half the time. She’s worth watching, however; she reads the list of the relief arriving. Shaw twitches when he hears Scott Summers’ name. "He could be useful."

Erik shakes his head. "I'm not so sure,” he says. He doesn’t know Summers well, but he knows him well enough. “He's deeply ingrained with his love of humans and the throne. He's close friends with the boy."

"You call him ‘the boy.’ You're not so much older than him," Shaw says, and Erik bristles.

"He's a boy as far as I'm concerned. He's spent his life in an ivory tower with people waiting on him hand and foot. What does he know about life? About his people?"

Shaw's smile is insufferable. "Indeed," he says.

Raven bursts in then, her golden eyes wide with fear and shock. "Erik," she manages, then glances at the television mounted on the wall. "You're watching. What the hell is going on?"

"I don't know," Erik says.

"We're not behind it, are we?" She’s looking at Erik, but even Shaw knows the words are directed at him. 

Erik looks to Shaw, like the answer might have changed since he asked the question. Shaw looks unconcerned with defending himself. "No,” Erik says, “we're not.”

"We should help."

"Should we?" Shaw says. 

"Yes, we should. We can, so we should," Raven says. "Mutants are dying out there, too. Everyone is scared and no one seems to be doing anything." She looks vaguely sick. "It needs someone to swoop in and save the day."

They both watch her. “How old are you, my dear?” Shaw asks.

But Erik just smiles; it bares his teeth more than it conveys mirth. "It would give us a new foothold."

"The people would know you again," Raven mutters, eyes on the screen. "It would also give you access to the bomb fragments."

Shaw’s obviously surprised by that. "You can tell about the bomb from the fragments?" he asks. 

"Metal holds its shape almost metaphorically if it hasn't been melted down,” Erik says. “I'm able to feel the bits and pieces, put them back together in my mind. It lets me see what was. Reverse engineering, in a sense."

"Very useful, that," Shaw says. 

"Erik, you should go." Raven rubs her hands up and down the scales of her arms. 

Erik sighs. "Where on the street did the bomb go off?" he asks. "Does anyone know yet?"

"The Center for Mutant Affairs," Raven says. "Which car will you take?"

Erik shakes his head. "I'll fly."

* * *

Sharon looks around at the ornately appointed table and wonders how she's supposed to get through this without any alcohol. 

"Something wrong?"

She closes her eyes for a moment. Then she pastes on her media smile and swings it toward her husband. "I'm still sore," she says. "I'll have to take some more medication when I retire."

Marko frowns sympathetically. "I wish every day that I had been with you," he says as he butters a croissant. 

Sharon's hand spasms around the stem of her glass. Orange juice. "Well, no need for that,” she says. “We need a perfectly healthy steward.”

Marko just looks at Sharon. "Would you like your glass refreshed?" he asks, voice flat. She’s certain he doesn’t mean juice, even though she informed him that she hadn’t been drinking since the accident.

"No, thank you. I'm going to try and rally an appetite." Marko flicks a smile at her. "Charles is coming home today," she says, and the smile wilts before fading entirely. 

"I hadn't heard that," he says, and wonders why that is. The rage at the back of his throat colors the taste of the bread and suddenly he doesn't have an appetite. "I'm glad he's well enough to come home."

"Yes, I’ve missed him," Sharon says. "Where's Cain?"

"He's probably out seeing to the people. You know how the prince is," he says. 

"He's not a prince, dear. Remember we talked about that." She says it as though explaining it to a five-year-old, because this is their dance. He pushes and she calls him on it. Then back the other way.

Marko sniffs and sits back in his chair. "I see you're not partaking of your usual refreshment," he says, tongue skirting his teeth. "Why is that?"

Sharon colors and looks away. "It doesn't mix with the medication," she says. "Besides, I'm not sure it's entirely appropriate to be at a disadvantage during times like these."

"Times like these?" Marko prompts, like he doesn’t know. 

Before Sharon can respond, the doors swing open and there’s the pounding of feet. When she looks over her shoulder, several security agents have poured into the room. Marko frowns and rises to his feet, tossing his napkin down over his plate. 

"Coulson," he barks from his full height. "We are in the middle —"

"Forgive me, Steward, but there has been another bombing," Coulson says, pointing the men to each of the exits. "We must secure you as quickly as possible."

Marko pales and Sharon watches him carefully. His reaction to the last had been general concern. Cursory comfort for her. At no point did she recall fear on his face. 

"Where?" he chokes out. Sharon is helped out of her chair. 

"Downtown, near the hospital. A building has come down," Coulson says. "We're not sure of the casualties and search and rescue has started. Please, Your Majesty, Steward." Coulson gestures with his gun toward the heavy metal doors that lead to the underground panic rooms. 

"What about Charles?" Sharon asks.

"And Cain," Kurt demands. 

"Both are being secured. The crown prince will be staying where he is for now. We'll give you updates as soon as we have everyone secured. Please." Coulson gestures again and Marko wants to snap at him, but Sharon sets a hand on his arm.

"Thank you, Coulson,” she says. “Come, Kurt. We need to let them do their jobs." 

Marko’s nostrils flare and he takes hold of her waist so that he can be the one to lead her. It’s best if these agents don’t see how annoyed he is with her.

"I like you better when you drink," he says, and Sharon only smirks sadly, to his surprise. 

"I know," is all she says.

* * *

Ororo is standing on one of the elaborate balconies on the west side of the palace. She should be in the air. Helping. She’s not on the call-in list, but they might not turn her away. The wind catches the edge of her skirt and she's losing reasons not to take off when someone snatches her wrist. She turns on them, angry.

"Lady Munroe, please." 

It takes a moment before she recognizes Barton. It almost doesn't matter because Ororo is already lifting off, if only a few inches. Barton is straining to stay on the ground. A man with a weaker grip wouldn’t be managing it.

"Please," he says again.

"What's happening?" she asks, obediently setting herself down. 

"It was —"

"I know it was an explosion," Ororo interrupts. "What’s going on now?"

"We've entirely locked down the palace. That's why I couldn't let you leave. You wouldn't be able to come back and Queen Sharon asked I make sure that you were safe. Rogers and Stark are already locked out." 

Ororo purses her lips. "I understand," she says, though she’s frustrated with the queen for taking that liberty. Ororo looks over Barton’s shoulder. There’s another security agent standing at attention in front of the door. 

"Let’s move, then,” he says. “We don't have time to babysit pets of the Crown when there are people losing their lives downtown.”

"What is your name?" Ororo demands.

The man glances at Barton, but he offers no help. 

"Styles."

"Styles, my lady," Ororo corrects and then waits.

“My lady,” Styles says. Ororo continues staring until he’s uncomfortable and then turns to Barton.

“Would you allow us to escort you to your suite?" he asks her.

"I won't begrudge you your job," she says, still looking at Styles. She moves out the door, but leads the way. 

She has to wait for security to clear her room before she's allowed inside, and once they're done she's alone again. 

She takes a deep breath. Then she rubs her thumb along her fingers, calling just enough electricity to spark along her palms. She waves it across the walls, around and over the furniture. There isn't any responding feedback; surveillance free. She opens her window to dispel the energy.

Ororo moves to her dresser and tugs out a tablet – not of Stark design – and powers it up. It's not long before a familiar face appears. 

" _Ororo. Are you all right?_ "

She nods, curling her legs under her on the sofa and tries not to cry. T’Challa looks a little older every time she sees him. "I am," she says. 

" _You are not near the explosion, are you?_ "

"I think you would know if I were," Ororo retorts. 

" _I would. You look concerned_."

"My countrymen are dying," she says. "How could that not move me to tears?" Ororo allows herself to wipe at her eyes as she tries to keep her voice steady. "I could help."

" _I don't want you to do anything beyond making sure the sky is clear, Ororo. I cannot lose you._ " T'Challa looks upset now as well and Ororo swallows. Too many miles.

"You won't lose me,” she says. "And I made sure the sky was clear.”

" _Good. You delivered the intel as best you could as soon, as we were made aware. Now we have to sit back and let it play out. We agreed._ "

Ororo nods. They did. It’s small comfort. "I must go,” she says. “We've tempted fate by talking this long."

" _As long as you use my hardware, we won't be caught_ ," T'Challa says. Ororo can almost feel the smugness through the screen. " _Ororo... Please stay safe for me._ "

A smile involuntarily twitches Ororo's mouth. "I love you, too, T'Challa," she says because while his station keeps him from telling her, Ororo's station doesn't keep her from reminding him.

* * *

They’ve given him meds, but not the great ones. It’s the first thing Tony can tell when he wakes up. Damn it. He really hates the hospital, even as a guest.

He means to ask what happened. He gets as far as, “Mmf.” He’s not even sure his eyes are open.

“You’re an idiot,” is the response he gets.

There are other noises. At least a few other voices, murmuring quietly. A heart monitor. Not fun. Tony licks his lips and swallows.

“Pepper,” he says. It comes out clearer than he would have imagined. “Light of my life.”

“He’s awake,” she says, not to him. He can feel her hand in his now. And shit, he can’t move the other arm. That it’s even still there is guesswork at this point, really. He blinks his eyes open but has to move his head to find her, sitting to his right.

“Rhodey,” he says.

“He’s fine, just a broken arm and a few scrapes and burns,” she tells him.

Tony breathes, because that’s a relief, but it’s tight. Breathing will hurt if the meds wear off. He looks past Pepper. It’s a large room. He finds Hank McCoy and Steve standing in the corner. McCoy smiles and approaches him.

And Steve. Looks _pissed_. Shit.

“Obadiah’s outside. Your dad was here,” Pepper says, like Tony might be wondering. He hadn’t gotten there yet. “He left a little while ago.”

Tony huffs an ironic laugh and then winces. Made sure he wouldn’t die and then decided Tony knowing he’s angry is more important than Tony knowing he was worried. Could have called that one, yeah.

Least he was worried, though.

McCoy’s by his bedside now, blue as ever, but before he can speak, Steve does.

“Your arm’s fractured in two places,” he says. “Three cracked ribs. Superficial cuts and burns.”

Tony manages a smile. “Knew it couldn’t be that bad if I still remember all your names.”

McCoy smiles again. Steve might break his jaw if he clenches it any tighter. “We won’t need to keep you long,” McCoy agrees, beginning the business of checking him over. “But it’s not a scraped knee, Tony. You’ll have to take it easy for several weeks.”

“And no traveling, I bet.” It’s a risky thing, to be so cheeky. Steve’s really a lot angrier than Tony expected he’d be.

“Definitely not, but that’s true of everyone in the city right now; don’t go thinking you’re special.” McCoy fingers Tony’s IV bag and Tony frowns.

“Another bomb, then,” he says, even though he hadn’t known what else it might have been. He doesn’t remember much.

“Charles is still here, fine and secured,” McCoy assures him. “You can worry about it later. Be a kid for a while, huh?” McCoy squeezes the shoulder of his uninjured arm. “You’re going to need another round of meds soon. I’ll be back.”

He sets a hand on Steve’s shoulder on his way out as well. Steve glances at him, but then continues to glare at the floor. “Miss Potts,” he says, without looking away from it, “I’d like a minute alone with Tony, if you don’t mind.”

Pepper’s thumb brushes over Tony’s knuckles. “Of course,” she says, then smiles at Tony and stands, smoothing her skirt. She leans over and presses a kiss to his forehead and Tony gives a cursory grumble.

“Tell Obie thanks,” he tells her. “I’ll see him in a bit.”

She nods and then goes, skirting past Steve like she knows to give him a wide berth. When the door closes behind her and Steve still hasn’t moved, Tony clears his throat.

“Stress would probably aggravate my condition,” Tony warns him.

Steve doesn’t answer him. He slowly crosses to Pepper’s chair, lowering himself into it silently. He takes the hand of Tony’s Pepper abandoned, too, first with one hand, then with two, staring at it. Then he bends over it until his forehead rests there, breathing.

Tony has absolutely no idea what to do.

It’s the closest they’ve been since… since. Since Tony opened his big mouth. It probably shouldn’t be his first thought when Steve’s upset. He can’t put a hand on his head; Steve’s holding the only working one he has.

“Steve,” Tony croaks, voice as unsteady as he had expected it to be when he woke. Steve doesn’t do things like this.

“I need you,” Steve finally says, muffled, “to never do that to me again.”

Steve’s lips are pressed to the back of his hand. Not kissing, just. There and not moving away. It’s not fatherly. That’s all Tony can think. His heart monitor is beeping faster and Tony hates it.

“… Okay,” he says. It’s not really a promise. Tony can’t control the universe. The bomb has to take half the blame, after all. And Tony’s going to go ahead and lay another quarter of it on Rhodey’s shoulders. Just because.

And then Steve _is_ kissing his hand, thumbs petting restlessly. The fall of his hair hides it, but Tony can’t look away. Can’t move, really, and not for his injuries.

Tony has a moment to glimpse Steve’s face and an expression he’s never seen on it before, not like this. Then, because this is apparently Tony’s life now, Steve’s lips move from his hand to his mouth, hand tipping Tony’s jaw.

Tony can’t move at first while his brain catches up, but then. Then. His free hand is in Steve’s hair and he doesn’t remember putting it there and it’s slow and deliberate, like Steve’s memorizing him, and it’s too much. For the first time – and utterly insanely, because who even thinks of turning this down – Tony wonders if he’s too young for this feeling. Too selfish, too stupid, too weak.

Tony shakes his head. He didn’t mean to necessarily dislodge Steve, but it does. “You… you said – and I –”

Steve’s bottom lip is still hovering between both of his. “What was I supposed to say? You blindside me, and then with everything and –” He shuts his eyes. “What’s easier? Me telling you you’re a kid and you’ll get over it or _this_ and you _have_ to get over it?” And he pulls away and no, that’s not okay, so Tony’s hand tightens. “And you _are_ a kid, Tony. You will.”

“Says who?” Tony demands, fingers gripping Steve’s hair. “And that’s up to me anyway. We’re talking about you.” He shakes his head, still unable to believe it. Maybe he is on the good meds. “You lied to me.”

“Your entire life, my job has been to do what’s best for you.”

“So, it’s _okay_ you lied to me.”

“I think one day you might understand it, yes.”

“Oh, one day. One day. Of course. When I’m older and finally wise enough to understand your complex ways. You’re missing the point.”

“And what is the point?” The tone of Steve’s voice implies that he’s certain _Tony_ is the one missing the point.

“This wasn’t your decision!” Loud, too loud, ears outside the door. Tony sighs and settles back against the pillow. “Not just your decision, at least. I’m not five anymore, it’s my life. You don’t lie to me. You tell me your reasons.”

“And then you argue with me.”

“Maybe.” Tony bites his lip. “Okay, probably. Risk you take.” It’s really something they’ve needed to get straight for a while, independent of the situation.

“And if I agree you might be right,” Steve says carefully, “can you agree I might not be wrong? Whether you like it or not, I’ve been where you are and you haven’t been where I am. You might not be an idiot, Tony, but you’re not an adult, either. I don’t always know what to do with you.”

“Well, I _am_ an enigma.”

Steve gives him an unimpressed look. “I had two choices and I knew one would hurt you less. That’s all.”

“And you happened to be wrong. Do you know what the last couple of months have been like for me? Thought I’d ruined everything; you barely looked at me.”

Steve swallows. Guilt. It doesn’t feel as nice as Tony thought it would. “I thought if I treated it like a crush, something small, you…”

Tony’s eyes flick to Steve’s lips again. “It’s not a crush,” he says. Nothing about this feeling is small.

Steve’s eyes flutter shut and then back open. “You can’t know that yet.”

“I’d say over ten years is long enough to know the difference.” They passed crush so long ago, back when Steve was his entire world. Tony knows himself, he knows people, he knows what fits with him and what doesn’t, and Steve _fits_. Whether that’s because they belong or because they merely grew around each other is unknowable and irrelevant.

“I’m getting married, Tony.”

It hurts, even though that’s true, of course, and still true. Tony presses his thumb beneath Steve’s ear and smirks as best he can. “So stop kissing me.”

Steve tugs back a little. Guilt again, which was not the goal. “You scared the hell out of me,” he says, like an excuse.

He pulls Steve back down. “Let’s have that fight later.” Tony doesn’t kiss him. He just urges their foreheads back together. It feels nice, to sit and know he’s not alone in this. Nice in a terrifying sort of way, anyway.

Steve kisses him though, like he can’t help it, soft and warm and safe, even though it’s anything but. Tony sighs; everything’s starting to hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, everyone, but at least there's a little treat at the end.


	6. VI

"Do you need more water?" 

Jean shakes her head but accepts the bottle gratefully. "Thank you," she says, and swallows a large gulp. 

"Where would you like us to go next, Lady Grey?" The man at her side is Captain Adam Conners and his eagerness to help radiates off of him in waves. 

Jean yanks herself back mentally. It takes more focus than usual; she must be tired. "There's someone just there, beneath that pile of rubble; they're stuck in their car."

"Are you sure you can move this?" Conners asks, eyeing her stomach. In the heat, Jean's shirt sticks uncomfortably to her stomach, making her condition all the more obvious.

"Absolutely, Captain." 

Jean concentrates on ignoring the flashbulbs of cameras and film crews. The broken stone and warped metal weighs close to a quarter of a ton, she can feel it. It’s a strain, whether done physically or mentally.

"Clear the area, we have movement," Conners is saying into the radio pinned to his shoulder. He looks Jean up and down and adds, “I need medical and the Jaws of Life to pry open this car.” 

"Jean!"

She turns to find Scott rushing toward her. "Scott, are you all right?" 

"I'm fine; I actually need your help. We have a minivan wedged in tight. Azazel says he can't get them out, that there's nowhere for him to teleport to." He looks at Jean closely. "Your face is red."

Jean swipes at her nose. Scott knows this takes something out of her, she doesn’t need reminding. “Where’s the minivan?”

"Are you sure you can handle it?"

Jean just looks at him. _We can't afford to show weakness right now. People are thinking this is about mutants – they need to see some doing work for the greater good._

“Some?” Scott snaps aloud before he can think not to. Some. He works for this Crown every day, knows countless other mutants who do as well. No one’s asking humans to prove themselves on camera.

Jean just sets a hand on his arm, because she’s not wrong and they both know Scott knows that.

The whine of metal behind Jean makes them both turn toward the car. The human medic team backs away as the metal peels opens like a flower, revealing a heavily bleeding man and an unconscious woman. 

"Get them out," one of the medics barks, sparing no time for surprise, and the team surges forward again. 

Jean looks up when she notices people shouting and pointing, sees the gathered paparazzi tilting their cameras. Erik Lehnsherr floats to the ground and nods once at Scott and Jean. 

"Lord Summers,” he says, then, “Lady Grey." His eyes pass over Jean’s stomach; it’s been some time since either she or Lehnsherr have been to the capital.

“Lehnsherr,” Scott says. “What are you doing here?”

The mutants – and humans – permitted on sites involving possible triage are called in from preapproved lists. Lehnsherr has steadfastly refused to put his name on any list for as long as Scott has known him. He wonders, sometimes, what Lehnsherr might do if Parliament ever passes the registration law sitting on its floor. Much as he loathes the idea of it, he knows mutants like Lehnsherr are the reason behind it.

“If Lady Gray would like to refuse the help,” Lehnsherr says, eyeing her again, “I can leave.”

“Scott,” Jean says. She thinks they can’t afford to turn away abilities like Lehnsherr’s. And Scott would like to relieve her, he would. If he could pack Jean back to the north, he happily would.

“Don’t be a fool, Summers,” Lehnsherr says. There’s nothing particularly threatening in his tone; it’s an honest suggestion.

And the thing is, Scott’s not one. And even if he ignores the immediate consequences of saying yes, that allowing one civilian on site can be seen as tacit acceptance of any, he can’t ignore rules he’s sworn to uphold. Charles’ position is too delicate, it’s too big a statement for not enough pay-off. Whatever image Lehnsherr is trying to establish, Scott can’t ignore the one he has.

He shakes his head, feels Jean sense his answer before he says it. “I can’t use you, Lehnsherr.” 

Later, Scott will realize this was the moment. He will go over it and over it, and wish he could claim he would do things differently, given a second chance.

* * *

It’s three days before the royal family is cleared to leave their bunker and Sharon is grateful. If she has to spend one more minute in closed quarters with her husband, she might very well kill him. But she has Ororo at her elbow and that steadies Sharon's nerves and slightly dulls the desire for alcohol with brunch. A lighter-than-air fruit tart and various juices. Delicious. 

"This isn't up for discussion," Kurt says, mouth full of eggs and bacon. "It would do the people good to see their prince alive and well.” He gestures toward his son.

"I'm ready, father," Cain says as he pokes out his barrel chest. "I can and will do the Crown proud."

"I think the people would like more than a representative," Sharon says. 

"Representative?" Cain snaps. "I —"

"Lower your tone," Sharon says. She looks down at her drink and frowns. "What is this I’m drinking?" she asks Ororo, offhand.

"Orange mango juice, Your Majesty," Ororo says, hands clasped before her. "Is there something wrong?"

"It tastes different," Sharon says. 

Cain snorts and Ororo stiffens at the sound. "The mangos are finally in season, Your Majesty,” she says diplomatically. “The additional sweetness is what you probably taste.”

Sharon merely nods at Ororo but they both know that her abstention of alcohol has begun to return her sense of taste and smell. "I shouldn't have to remind you, Cain, that you are not actually a prince."

"You so enjoy telling me that. You are impossible," Cain huffs.

"You dare speak to the queen in that manner?" Ororo demands. 

Cain levels a fork at her. "You are certainly not royal, _you_ must watch your tone when you speak to me," he says, expression dangerous. "I could turn you out on your ear."

"My house is older than yours," Ororo reminds him. "Apologize to the queen.”

Cain looks mutinous until Marko clears his throat. "Cain," he says, "now is not the time."

"It's never the time. Is it, father?" And instead of apologizing, Cain shoots Sharon a glare and stalks from the room. 

"Clear the room," the queen says, and the guards posted at the door nod and step into the hall, closing the large double doors behind them. Ororo rises and goes to sit on the balcony, but leaves the glass door open so she might hear. Sharon doesn’t comment on it. 

"I wish you wouldn't antagonize our son," Kurt says. He wipes at his mouth and sets the napkin aside. "It doesn't help anything to have brothers warring with each other."

Sharon raises an eyebrow as she takes another swallow of juice. "What do you want," she asks. 

"I want you to stop this ridiculous farce, Sharon," Kurt says. "You've never been interested in how I've represented the Crown; why now?"

Sharon shrugs. "I’m finally doing my job," she says. "When you're in the hospital and your own husband hasn't visited you, it gets you thinking."

"Thinking? Sobriety really does wonders," Kurt says. "And what have you concluded? Two plus two is really five?"

Sharon is proud her hand doesn't shake. "That my people have lost faith in me and my family. I can't even blame you. I allowed this to happen. No more."

Kurt's jaw works underneath the skin. "Cain is a good candidate for this press conference," he says. "You may not consider him a prince, but the people do. We need to spin —"

"The people don't want _spin_ , they want leadership." 

Which is when they both realize that Charles has entered the room. How long he’s been there is indiscernible. Agent Coulson stands behind his wheelchair, hands hovering. 

"Charles," Sharon sighs. She stands and moves to give him a hug but stops just short, wincing at his injuries. "I'm so glad to see you," she says and settles for draping an arm over his shoulders and pressing a kiss into his hair. 

"Mother." She smells familiar and safe. He must have been far more worried about her than he realized because he doesn't quite want to let her go. When she pulls back Charles notices a clarity to her gaze he hadn't seen in some time, and his heart swells with pride. 

"Charles, you should be resting now that you're back," Kurt says. "We'll deal with the –"

"Deal with the people?" Charles says. "That will be my job soon. I think I should get some practice in."

"While that is technically true, no one would ask you to do so in your condition.”

"Well, then it’s good no one is asking. I’ll do the press conference." 

Kurt looks to Sharon and back to Charles, face ruddy with anger. "Very well,” he bites out. “I'll have the speech writers craft a response. First thing tomorrow morning."

"Tonight," Charles says. "The palace has been silent long enough."

Kurt’s nostrils flare, but he nods and leaves the room, snapping at Coulson to follow.

"Are you sure you're up to this, Charles?" Sharon asks. "You look..."

"I'm fine," he says, and doesn't elaborate. "We need to say something before someone else starts talking for us."

"Which is what is going to happen if you let the steward's wordsmiths craft your response." Charles turns to see Ororo leaning at the balcony door. "I'm glad to see you back, Your Highness.”

"I’m glad to see you, too." Charles frowns. "You think Kurt will use me as a mouthpiece. Something tells me you have a solution."

"With your permission, Your Majesty, Your Highness,” Ororo grins, “I do have a suggestion."

* * *

Erik returns angry and far too soon. Shaw does not bother to ask why, even though Raven is clearly curious. He sighs, the disappointment only half affected.

“They have their pet mutants, you see,” he tells Erik in lieu of a greeting. “For the press, perhaps even their own conscience. But none of them really want us there. Never forget that.”

Raven glances back and forth between them and Erik fumes silently. Shaw’s eyes remained fixed on the television.

“The real shame of it,” Shaw goes on, “is that half of us _have_ forgotten. Or worse, have chosen to. They’ll vote to register, and then they _will_ register, just to maintain that delusion: that how the world should be is how the world is.”

He turns to look at Erik then, sees he’s getting through.

“We’re running out of time,” he tells him.

* * *

Howard isn’t there until Tony’s release. Obadiah showed up at watch-setting intervals, though, which, much as he loves him, Tony suspects was not out of the kindness of his heart.

“I don’t even know what to do with you,” is the first and really only thing his father says to him, and Tony has no trouble at all believing him.

Rhodey is there, because he’s coming with them, and he smacks at Tony with his good arm, over Tony’s wrapped ribs, where he knows it’ll actually hurt a little and says, “You got me _scolded_. By Captain _Rogers_.” Which is ridiculous, because Rhodey knows Steve, and hasn’t called him by his rank since freshman year. Not that Tony is anything close to unfamiliar with the line between the two.

Steve stands by the door like he’s not quite sure what to do with Howard or Tony when they’re in the same room. And really, that’s nothing new. Ever since Tony can remember, though, there have been knowing looks and words between him and Steve or Steve and his father, usually about the other, comforting in its familiarity, because it’s how they operate. There’s none of that today. Tony can guess why. Steve might as well not be there, except for the way his eyes manage to never really leave Tony without ever settling on his face.

He wants to touch Steve. Not even a kiss or anything else particularly incriminating. Just to know he’s allowed now. Something to remind him that the other evening wasn’t a side effect of the medication. The way Steve’s avoiding his gaze should confirm it just fine, though, and it’s not like it matters. It might as well not have been real, for all it will change.

Tony’s rather inordinately pleased to see Pepper, and he thinks she might be judging him a little for his enthusiasm, but he kind of needs her right now. Bickering or no, he’s never not happy when he’s with her, and that’s saying something.

“Do you have a fever?” she asks when he won’t stop talking. She smirks and even lifts a hand to his forehead.

“No,” he says indignantly and succinctly (to make the point), even though he might just. He doesn’t bother trying to push her off. For a moment, Steve looks like he might move, might come check himself, but he watches Pepper carefully and must be satisfied. He watches her a little too carefully, really, and Tony doesn’t know what that’s about.

McCoy’s not there to see them off; it’s two nurses who arrive with wheelchairs for him and Rhodey. Hospital policy. Rhodey thinks it’s funny until he realizes one is for him. Laughing about that makes it easier on Tony. Who kind of actually needs the wheelchair. Not that he’s telling anyone.

It’s only when they reach the elevator that Tony realizes there’s a problem. Obadiah pushes the up button instead of the down.

“Where’re we going?” he asks. His father sets a hand on his shoulder, and that’s Tony’s second clue. He thinks Tony might try to stand.

“The roof,” Howard says.

Tony looks at Rhodey, who just frowns at him, then at Steve, who stares at the elevator doors. “The roof,” Tony says, and then puts two and two together, because he’s a genius, after all. “The helipad.”

“You’re going home, and you’re staying there,” Howard says and Tony doesn’t realize he _has_ tried to stand until his father’s grip tightens.

“I’m not going home,” Tony insists. “McCoy —”

“— Has cleared you both for air travel —”

“— And the lockdo — ”

“They’re making an exception. I took care of it. That’s the end of it.”

“I don’t need to go home, I think you underestimate the scheming it took to get here, Obie, tell him I don’t need to go home —”

“Not this time, kiddo.”

“Steve —”

“You’re _injured_ , Tony. Both of you. What’s it going to take?”

“It wasn’t that b —”

“Tony,” Howard says then. “I have had to take time away from my _job_ during a crisis, just to deal with you. You’ve scared everyone, you’ve inconvenienced everyone. You are going home, and I swear to God, I will give Jarvis shackles if I have to. Are we clear?”

Tony looks around for help from any corner, but Rhodey and Pepper just look uncomfortable, Obie’s smiling at him like he’s a particularly petulant five-year-old, and Steve for the first time all morning is looking directly at him, but he’s perfectly resolute. Steve surely wants him gone as soon as possible, and not just to keep him safe.

“We’re clear,” Tony says more to Steve than to his father, and then sits back in his wheelchair, falling rather uncharacteristically silent.

They’re allowed to stand when they reach the roof, which is just about the only bonus of the situation. Howard’s hand doesn’t leave his shoulder, like Tony might bolt, which Rhodey seems to notice, because he smirks at Tony. Happy Hogan is standing under the helicopter’s whirling blades in shades and a protective headset, hands clasped at his waist. He lifts one in greeting when he sees them standing beside the elevator. Pepper rushes to greet him, clearly coming along, and Tony feels marginally better. Maybe he can talk Obie into letting him keep her up north for a while.

“I’ll be back by evening,” Howard is saying to both Obie and Steve and Tony _really_ does not like the idea of dealing with his father with neither of them there as a buffer.

“You’re not coming?” he asks Steve, which is silly, he knows. _Howard_ shouldn’t be coming, but Tony will have no luck convincing him Happy can handle it when he managed to escape him once, and Pepper and Rhodey are only enablers.

Steve looks caught, like he hadn’t expected Tony to ask, and this is suddenly so much worse than a long trip alone with his father. Tony has no idea if Steve will be home again any time soon, if he’ll bother to come home again at all before the wedding, which was fine, it was fine, in the way it wasn’t fine at all, but Tony was dealing with it, when Steve and his father left the first time. When Tony was an idiot for even trying to bring up how he felt, when he was alone, when Steve seemed happy to marry Charles, or at least not unhappy.

And now. Now Tony’s not alone, and dear God, Steve was right, he never should have told him he wasn’t.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Tony,” Howard says to that, and because his father has a knack for saying the exact wrong thing to him, whether he knows it is or not, he adds, “Someone has to stay with Charles.”

“Now, Howard,” Obie says, reaching for the shoulder of Tony’s his father’s not holding, which happens to be the injured one. Tony winces but doesn’t protest. “I can take care of that for an afternoon, if Steve wants to go.”

“I don’t really know about that —” Steve says.

“It’s no problem. And you’ll be back by tonight, your shield’s not even here; you should go.” Tony feels Obie’s hand tighten. “Tony would like you to go. And his whole life, our job has been to do what’s best for him. Right?”

Steve looked reluctant before, and a little wary, because Tony knows he doesn’t much care for Obie, which has never particularly surprised or worried him. But now, Steve is downright angry. And Tony knows him well enough to recognize the difference between annoyed and pissed as hell. This face is pissed as hell. And Tony has no idea why.

Obie’s grip doesn’t waver under Steve’s stare, which is impressive. He must not know how angry he is. Tony frowns at Steve, trying to will him to look at him instead, confused.

“Let’s move, whatever we’re doing,” Howard says, because Happy is tapping at his wrist across the pad, and all the noise is likely starting to annoy. “Coming or staying?” he asks Steve, already tugging Tony out of Obie’s grip.

Steve holds Obie’s eyes a little longer. “Coming,” he says, almost too quietly to hear over the helicopter.

“Let’s go, then,” Howard says, and to Obie, “Check in with Charles every hour.”

“Of course.”

Steve follows along behind them, setting a hand at the small of Tony’s back, which surprises him, but he supposes it’s benign enough. They duck under the blades and climb into the helicopter, Rhodey first and Steve and Happy last. 

When they’re settled, Pepper pleasantly squeezing his knee, Tony tries to catch Steve’s eye again, silently asking. But Steve just shakes his head at him and glares at the window. Happy taps at the ceiling and they’re in the air.

* * *

Ahmahl Farouk startles out of his sleep and frowns.

He sweeps the immediate area quickly but feels no one out of place. Two servants in their quarters are asleep and familiar. Nothing else.

The phone rings loudly at his bedside and he groans before reaching for the speaker button. 

"Farouk," he mutters, rubbing thumb and forefinger at his eyes. He glances at the caller ID and wakes fully. A palace number.

" _Farouk. Lord Shaw's office calling. Are you available to meet at The Emerald Crown in one hour?_ "

Farouk blinks at the time on display: three forty-two in the morning. He can't risk asking if this could wait; a head advisor can and will call for any lower advisors at any given time. "Of course," he says as he slips from beneath his covers. "You can tell Lord Shaw that I would be delighted to join him."

" _One hour._ "

The call disconnects and Farouk rubs his neck, going over what this could be about. Inwardly he curses Shaw and his gall. It's nearly four in the morning.

He dresses quickly and calls for his driver immediately. He has an hour but Shaw will expect him to arrive early. Hell, he's probably already there. Farouk gathers all the reports in his possession regarding the last parliamentary advisory meeting and manages to knock back a drink before his driver arrives.

It doesn't take long to arrive at The Emerald Crown, a high end restaurant that is one of the many properties Lord Shaw owns. It looks stately even while closed, the large white marble columns highlighted by small spotlights. Farouk can see movement of security personnel. Shaw's private army.

The towncar's door opens and Shaw's assistant, a well-dressed man called Janos Quested, smiles down at him. "Mister Farouk,” he says. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. Please, this way."

Farouk doesn't ask about the security. He scans the minds around him and finds they know nothing. They are paid to stand around and look intimidating. Even Quested's mind has no answer as to why he's been summoned. Given his abilities, Farouk is unused to being unprepared and the stab of fear in his stomach is one he hasn't felt in quite some time.

He's led to an opulent office, high above the dining room. 

"Lord Shaw will be with your shortly," Quested says, and bows before closing the door behind him. 

The room is all Shaw. Formal crown molding and marble finishes; nothing warm or inviting. Farouk sits on one of the stiff leather chairs and shuffles his papers just to have something to do.

After a moment he casts his mind out and brushes against a peculiar spot. A _hole_ , devoid of the hum of human thoughts. But it’s moving toward him. Farouk scrambles to his feet, bracing himself as the doors are thrown open.

Lord Shaw enters and Farouk cannot help but gape. He sees the man in front of him but he cannot _feel_ his mind. 

"From the look on your face, Ahmahl, I can see the helmet works."

Farouk recovers quickly only through years of practice. "I don't understand, my lord. Are we going hunting?" he asks, blinking repeatedly. He cannot shake the feeling of wrongness. Shaw is a figment of his imagination, a walking corpse, and he can't help but stare at him warily.

"I think we're beyond playing coy. You, my dear friend, are a telepath."

Farouk's blood runs cold and he swallows. "What?" he manages to croak. "That's preposterous, my lord. Telepaths are –"

"Prohibited from serving in government, yes." Shaw's smile borders on a sneer. "It was smart of you. To wait until my wife had left the country to pursue public office. She would've outed you in a minute to Alison Blaire."

Bile rises at the mention of Emma Frost; she’s a powerful telepath and Farouk tries to stay under her radar for obvious reasons. "My lord," he says again, feigning ignorance, "I am not a telepath."

"Yet you have that same look they all get when I wear this." Shaw taps the helmet with a finger.

"Fine," Farouk says coolly, which is not an admission. "What do you want?"

"A great many things. Some things, I'm sure we want in common," Shaw says. "I know you dabble in information gathering. I've been watching you and you've been very careful to never sell intel without proof. No one would guess you were a mutant."

"That was the idea," Farouk says.

"We are on the cusp of change, Farouk. History is being made as we speak. Where do you want to be when the dust settles?"

Farouk strains against the nothingness in front of him and then stops fighting. He knows when to play dead. "With the winning team," he says truthfully.

Shaw's smile widens, if that's possible. "Good answer."

**Author's Note:**

> This is gonna be a rather involved undertaking, but we're a bit ahead on the whole what's-written/what's posted ratio, so here's hoping you guys won't have to wait too long for updates. Reeeally hope you enjoy it.


End file.
